ARENCE  H.  WHITE. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FANTASMA 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


KANSAS  CITY,  MO.  : 

RAMSEY,   MILLETT  &  HUDSON. 

1879. 


All  Rights  Reserved '. 


H-49 


CONTENTS. 


FANTASMA. 

Preface 7 

Characters  of  the  Story 8 

Part  First 9 

Part  Second 26 

Part  Third 44 

Part  Fourth 94 

Part  Fifth 114 

Notes 139 

THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

Preface 145 

Proem 147 

Part  First 160 

Notes 198 

MARCELLA. 

« 

Introduction 203 

Canto  1 205 

Canto  II 218 

Canto  III 240 

Notes   .  262 


4  CONTENTS. 

WILD  IRIS  AND  OTHER  RHYMES. 

Wild  Iris 269 

The  River 270 

To  My  Brother   ..." 271 

Amid  the  Corn 273 

Ellen 275 

The  Lilly  Queen 276 

To  Alice:  A  Reverie 281 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 284 

The  Silk  Tree 286 

In  Darkness  and  the  shadow  of  Death 287 

Music  in  the  Night 289 

One  in  Ten 292 

Indian  Summer 294 

A  Comparison 295 

Discontent 296 

Fannie 298 

Fidelity 299 

My  Brother 300 

The  Light  of  Other  Days 301 

Serenade 302 

Rosa  Senza  Spinas 303 

The  Fairy  Ring *  .    .    .  304 

The  Jewel-Seeker 309 

The  Mocking-bird 311 


FANTASMA: 


A    FAIRY    TALE,    IX    FIVE    PARTS. 


When   f  goe  musing  all  alone, 

Thinking  of  diverse  things  foreknowne, 

When  I  builde  castles  in  the  ayre, 

Voide  of  sorrow,  voide  of  fear, 
Pleasing  myself  with  fantasms  sweele, 
Met/links  the  time  runnes  very  fleete. 

— BURTON. 


PREFACE. 


TO    ALICE. 

O  well-beloved !  whose  heart,   in  other  days, 
Beat  to  my  own  with  full-responsive  chime, 
When  our  young  pulses  thrilled  to  sounds  sublime 

Of  the  Great  Singer's  world-entrancing  lays; — 

Thou,   who  didst  walk  with  me  the  woodland  ways 
Of  fair  Virginia,    harkening,   many  a  time, 
My  childish  fancies  clothed  in  simplest  rhyme, 

Crowning  the  youthful  poet  with  thy  praise — 
Receive  this  scroll,   wherein  the  verse  appears 

Of  recent  days :  and,   if  it  seems  too  light, 

Lacking  the  salt  and  bitter  strength  of  tears, — 

It  is,  that  rose-winged  Time  has  grown  so  bright, 

And  Faith  has  crowned,  with  blessings  infinite, 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  my  later  years. 

ROCKINGHAM    COUNTY,     N.     C.,     AllgUSt    15,     1876. 


CHARACTERS   OF   THE   STORY: 


MORTALS. 

BEAUCLERC,  a  Magician. 
FLORIAN,  a  Poet. 
DAN,  Florian's  Servant. 
THE  HERMIT. 

Witches,    Wizards,  etc. 
LUCIA,  the  Sister  of  Florian. 


FAIRIES,  SPIRITS,  ETC. 
FANTASMA,  Queen  of  all  Fairies. 
ROSEMARY,  a  Changeling. 
EGLANTINE,  the  Fairy  of  Poesy. 
LIGEIA,  Queen  of  Sea-Nymphs. 
ETHERIA  Queen  of  the  Sylphides. 
AUREOLE,  King   of  Fire-Sprites. 
LAVENDER,  a  Changeling. 
PHANTASM  OF  A  POET. 

Fairies,     Brownies,    Fauns, 
Nymphs,  etc. 

Evil  Spirits  and  Familiars. 


FANTASMA. 

PART    FIRST. 

SCENE  I. — A  lonely  road  through  a  Forest ;  a  deserted  Church. 
BEAUCLERC  enters,  from  the   Wood. 

BEAUCLERC. 

The  evening  shadows  thicken  in  the  woods, 
And  silence  reigns  in  these  dim  solitudes, 
Night-peopled  by  wild  sprite  and  glimmering  ghost, 
And  darker  earthly  shapes,  with  souls  more  lost. 
This  night,   whose  first  sweet  shades  are  here  at  last, 
Will  make  amends  for  all  my  wretched  past; 
This  thrice-blest  night,  that  brings  the  fated  hour 
When  fortune  pours  for  me  her  golden  shower, 
Crowns  me  with  love,  and  sceptres  me  with  power! 

[A  whippou'il  cries. J 

The  signal-bird,   calling  the  wood-sprites  all 
To  keep  to-night  the  full-moon  festival, 
Bids  me  take  up  yon  fatal  bough,  that  lies 


j  FANTASMA. 

On  the  worn  steps  that  to  the  church-door  rise — 
A  pledge  of  help  in  this  night's  enterprise. 

[Takes  up  a  spray  of  mistletoe. 
What  lovely  maid  is  this,  abroad  so  late? 

Enter  FANTASMA,  like  a  young  girl,  richly  attired. 
Too  bright  a  bird  are  you,   to  lack  a  mate — 

FANTASMA. 

Wound  not  with  ribald  speech  a  spirit's  ear! 
Unholy  words  are  not  for  me  to  hear. 
I  am  a  spirit  whom  thou  long  didst  seek 
To  bind  with  spells.     Ah,  mortal  worse  than  weak  ! 
Think'st  thou,  the  soul  of  beauty  can  be  thine  ? 
Thou,  less  than  man,   /,   child  of  the  Divine  ? 
Yet,  I  would  warn  thee:    thou  dost  hope  this  night 
To  set  the  wrong  above  the  unchampioned  right. 
Ah,  blinded  mortal,  that  shall  never  be ! 
Thou  hast  a  foe — a  powerful  foe — in  me  ! 

BEAUCLERC. 

Divine  Fantasma!   wilt  thou  ever  be 
The  untiring  foe  of  him  who  worships  thee  ? 
Take  hands  with  me !  this  enmity  forego —     : 
To  knowledge  why  should  beauty  be  a  foe  ? 
Rouse  from  thy  worship  of  a  false  Ideal, 
And  I  will  teach  thee  how  to  know  the  Real ! 
The  bondage  thou  dost  call  religion,  leave, 
And  the  pure  light  of  liberty  receive. 


FAN  TASMA. 

From  Faith's  insane  delusions  wert  thou  free, 
Freedom  herself  were  proud  to  follow  thee! 

FANTASMA. 

He  who  of  Liberty  so  loudly  raves 
Is  to  his  goddess  bound,   a  slave  of  slaves, 
To  Freedom-and-Equality  poor  thrall — 
Equality,  the  tyrant  worst  of  all! 
Alas !   what  madness  in  that  dream  must  be 
Of  all  impossible  equality ! 

There  is  no  freedom — heed  the  truth  I  speak — 
There  is  no  freedom,   such  as  you  would  seek ! 
Neither  in  spirit-realm  nor  world  of  sense 
Is  freedom  found  :  the  law  of  consequence, 
Alone,   has  forged  a  chain  that  will  not  break. 

0  hear  and  heed  this  truth  for  your  own  sake ! 
In  the  wide  universe  there  is  but  ONE 

Who  is,  or  can  be,  free — for  He  alone 

Is  Strength  and  Love  and  Wisdom. — Child  of  clay! 

Man's  nature  is,   to  trust,   and  to  obey ! 

Vainly  against  this  law  wouldst  thou  rebel : 

Servant  of  heaven,  or  else  the  slave  of  hell ! 

BEAUCLERC. 
Spirit  of  loveliness !    I  take  thy  warning ! 

1  give  thee  hate  for  hate  and  scorn  for  scorning  ! 
I  woo'd  thee  long,   Fantasma  the  divine! 
Henceforth,   I  am  thy  foe,  as  thou  art  mine. 


.  FANTASMA. 

Thou  wild  and  frolic  daughter  of  the  woods, 

The  pet  of  Nature  in  her  lightest  moods, 

With  music-breathing  lips  and  starlit  eyes, 

Untutored  in  earth's  darker  mysteries — 

Thou  succor  the  oppressed?     Thou  right  the  wrong? 

Such  deeds  are  not  for  thee,  soft  queen  of  song! 

FANTASMA. 

Vain  mortal!  I  could  almost  pity  thee. 
Show  but  one  touch  of  true  humanity, 
One  gleam  of  mercy,  and  I  yet  will  spare — 
Will  save  thee  from  the  doom  that  thou  dost  dare! 

BEAUCLERC. 

Thou  spare?     What  strength  from   beauty   can  proceed, 
Light  as  the  wind,   weak  as  a  trembling  reed  ? 
Know,  lovely  phantom  of  the  shining  brow, 
I  deal  with  spirits  mightier  far  than  thou, 
Before  whose  flames  thy  firefly  light  would  fade, 
And  thou  shrink  to  the  shadow  of  a  shade! 
\The  church  windows  shine  from  light  within.      Wild  music. 
But,  hark,  the  signal!     Dare  not  thou,   this  night, 
A  mortal,  armed  in  more  than  mortal  might! 
Stronger  than  thy  soft  arm  the  power  must  be 
That  locks  the  rolling  wheel  of  destiny. 

\_He  goes  into  the  church. 

FANTASMA. 

That  power  lies  in  the  strength  of  purity ! 
It  has  been  promised  me  that  I  shall  find 


FANTASMA.  13 

A  helper,  pure  of  heart  and  strong  of  mind: 
And,  lo,  the  time  is  come,  the  steps  draw  near, 
And  youth,  and  strength,  and  purity  are  here! 
And  timid  ignorance  comes  after  him, 
Trembling  at  moonlight  shapes  and  shadows  dim. 
Enter  FLORTAN  and  DAN. 

FLORIAN. 

Why,   who  is  this  fair  girl,   so  late  abroad, 
In  this  dark  forest,  on  so  lone  a  road? 

DAN. 

Don't  you  go  for  to  speak  to  her,   Mas'  Flo. ! 

She  come  from  dat  ole  graveyard,   what  you  know? 

Dat  ar  ole  church  is  haunted  anyhow. 

When  we  was  down  de  road  a  little  ways, 

I  hearn  de  organ  play,   and  seen  de  windows  blaze. 

FLORIAN. 

Lady,   what  do  you  in  this  lonely  wood  ? 
They  call  it  haunted,   this  dim  solitude. 

FANTASMA. 

Sir,.  I  have  lost  my  way,   and  hither  strayed ; 
And  now,  to  turn  or  to  advance  afraid, 
I  trust  your  chivalry  to  give  me  aid. 

FLORIAN. 
So  far  as  I  have  power,  I  pledge  my  word 


I4  FANTASMA. 

To  aid  you  to  the  utmost,    till  restored 
To  your  own  home,  wherever  that  may  be. 

FANTASMA. 

You  pledge   your  word  to  this? 

FLORIAN. 

Most  full  and  free! 

FANTASMA. 

I  take  the  pledge!     Before  the  morning's  light 
You  must  redeem  it  as  a  faithful  knight. 
Farewell — but  ere  the   midnight   hour   shall  fade, 
I  summon  thee  to  give  the  promised  aid! 

\Shc  disappears. 
DAN. 

Dar,   now !   what  does  you  think  o'   dat,    Mas'   Flo.  ? 
I  knowed  she  was   a  witch;   I   tole   you   so! 

FLORIAN. 

'Tis  more  than  strange,   indeed !    I   well  might  deem 
That  figure  but  the  illusion   of  a  dream. 

DAN. 

O  lord!     What  made  you  come  dis  way  to-night? 
We'll  be  forever  ha'nted  by   dat  sprite! 

FLORIAN. 

Why  should  you  tremble   with  such  needless  fear  ? 
It  was  a  most  gentle  ghost  that  met  us  here, 


FANTASMA.  15 

(If  ghost  it  be),   and  a  most  lovely  one: 
A   fairer  face   I  never   looked  upon ! 
You  should  be   more  astonished   than  afraid 
At  this,   the  wild  trick  of  some  country  maid. 

DAN. 

"  Trick?"   Yes,  will  bofe  be  tricked,2  dat's  mighty  clear! 
Is  you  bewitched,  to  stand  a-gazin'   here! 
Come  on,   Mas'  Flo.,   and  less  git  out  o'  dis. 
Come  on;   come  on;   I'm  gwine   for  home,    /  is! 


SCENE  II. — A  wild  glade  in  the  Forest. 
Enter  ROSEMARY,   JACK-O-LANTERN,  and  Fairies. 

FIRST   FAIRY. 
I   float  upon  the   thistledown, 

That  light  and  merry  rover! 
The  west-wind  is  my   winged  steed 

To  bear  me  far  away, 
Above  the   tumult  of  the   town, 
The   deep-green   country  over  ! 
More  useful   things  may  be,    indeed, 
But   few  so  light,  and  gay ! 


16  FANTASMA. 

SECOND    FAIRY. 
I   lead  the   train   of  lightning-flies 

That  twinkle  in   the  twilight! 
I   wake  the  lilies  from  their  dreams; 

The  roses  all  unfold; 
The  tulips  flaunt  their  brilliant   dyes 

Beneath  my   flashing  fly-light; 
And  the  lightly-drooping  fuchsia  seems 
A  fount  of  starry  gold! 

JACK-O  LANTERN. 
The  bonny  elfin-fire  am   I, 

That  glimmers  in  the  gloaming! 
The   meadow-fays  dance  merrily 

Beneath  my   fitful  gleam; 
The  forest-fairies  follow   me, 

For  all   my   willful  roaming, 
Beneath  my  dancing  light   to  see 
Their  faces  in  the  stream! 

The  lurking  thief  starts  back  to  see 

My  rays  beside  him  glancing ! 
Benighted  men  do  I  mislead, 

And  wile  them  from  their  way ! 
The  merry  wildfire  flickers   free, 

O'er  marsh  and  meadow  dancing — 
Far  truer  lights  there  are,   indeed, 
But  none  so  wild  and  gay! 


FANTASMA.  17 

ROSEMARY. 

Have  you  performed  your  task,   and  led  astray 
Young   Florian   to  the  forest? 

JACK  O-LANTERN. 

Far  away 

From  their  true  path  I  led  them;  and  full  soon 
They  will  be  here,  wild-wandering  by  the  moon. 
Was  it  well  done,  Rosemary? 

ROSEMARY. 

Truly,    yes, — 

But  now  it  is  mine  hour  of  heaviness, 
When  I  my  senses  in  light  slumber  steep: 
The  air-born  fairies  on  the  wing  may  sleep, 
But  I  am  but  a  changeling  fay,  at  best, 
And  slumber  bows  my   head  to  the  green  breast 
Of  earth,  my  mother,   where  I  take  my  rest. 
Upon  this  bed  of  wood-moss  I  will  lie 
Till  time  shall  bring  the  wandering  Florian  nigh, 
Whose  coming  must  arouse  me.     Quickly  run, 
Light  fairies!     Tell  our  queen  the  task  is  done. 
[She  sleeps.     JACK.-O-LANTERN  and  the  Fairies  flit  away. 

Enter  FLORIAN  and  DAN. 

DAN. 
Well,  if  I  does  git  outen  dis  yere  wood, 


i8  FANTASMA. 

I'll  just  stay  outen  hit  forebber  mo  ! 
O  massy-sakes-alive  !     What  is  dis  yere  ? 

FLORIAN. 

What  is  it,  now?  A  child,  and  quite  alone! 
What. chance  is  this,  within  the  forest  wild? 
Who  and  whence  art  thou,  lone  and  lovely  child? 

ROSEMARY. 
Rosemary,  I  am  called.     I've  lost  my  way. 

DAN. 
Dat's  jest  what  all  the  pesky  goblins  say. 

FLORIAN. 

Dan,  go  you  now  to  yonder  ruddy  light 
That  gleams  so  brightly  from  that  distant  height; 
'Tis,   doubtless,  some  lone  house  upon  the  hill, 
Or,  haply,  it  may  shine  from  Barksdale's  mill  — 
The  ruined  mill,   where  the  good  hermit  lives : 
All — wandering,  lost,  or  homeless — he  receives. 
Whate'er  it  is,  go,  seek  that  light  and  say 
How  we  in  this  dim  forest  lost  our  way, 
And,  therefore,  ask  for  shelter,  rest  and  food 
For  us  and  this  young  child,  lost  in  the  wood. 

DAN. 

De  debil  fetch  me,  if  I  stirs  dis  night 
To  follow  any  Jack-ma-Lanter's2  light ! 


FANTASMA.  19 

Has  you  forgot  when  we  fust  lost  de  road, 
How  like  a  lamp  de  Jack-ma-Lanter  glowed  ? 
You  said  de  light  was  in  some  house  you  knowed. 
And  den  we  followed  dat  deceitful  fire 
Till  I  went  plump  into  de  black  marsh-mire, 
And  waist-deep  in  de  mud  an'  rushes  stuck, 
An'  flopped  an'  floundered  like  a  hurt  wild-duck ; 
An'  when  I  scrambled  out,   we  bofe  turned  back, 
But,   in  de  dark,   of  course,   we  lost  de  track. 
And  somethin'  come  behind  me  wid  a  push, 
And  pitched  me  headlong  in  a  blackberry  bush; 
And  dis  here  nigger's  skin  got  more'n  one  scratch 
'Fore  he  got  outen  dat  ole  blackberry  patch. 
And  somethin'  poked  me  awful  in   de  ribs, 
And  bofe  my  eyes  was  full  of  spider-webs; 
I  hit  a  stump   an'   gin,  my   shins  a  rake, 
An'   pretty   nigh  stepped  on   a  moc'sin  snake, 
An',   last,    I  tumbled  in  de  brook   down   yonder: 
An'   ain't  all  this  enough  for  onct,    I   wonder? 
Now,   you  must  send  me  deeper  in   de  wood 
To  find  dat  light,   shin  in'  from  thick  marsh-mud, 
Or  risin'  from  some  still,  black,  shiny  pool, 
Or  quakin'  quicksand.     Think  ole  Dan's  a  fool? 
I  haint  a-gwine  to  quit  you  till  we  go, 
Bofe  of  us,   outen  dis  here  woods,   Mas'  Flo.  ! 

FLORIAN. 
What,   will  you  play  the  coward  ?     Yonder  light 


FANTASMA. 

Is  no  wildfire;  it  glimmers  from  a  height. 
There's  neither  marsh  nor  quicksand  on  a  hill; 
That  is  some  house,  or  else  'tis  Barksdale's  mill, 
Built  where  the  stream  leaps  to  the  lake  below. 
Shake  off  your  childish  fears,  good  Dan,  and  go ! 
Till  you  return,   I  will  not  quit  this  place. 

DAN. 

Nor  /  shant  leave  it,   neither — here  I  stays 
Till  I  git  out  o'  here  by  broad  daylight. 
De  ghosts  haint  pestered  you  dis  livelong  night ; 
But  dere's  a  difference  twixt  us  two,   you  see ; 
De  ghosts  an'  goblins  has  a  spite  at  me, 
An'  till  I  fetch  my  head  safe  out  o  dis, 
I  gwine  to  stick  right  close  to  you,   I  is ! 

FLORIAN. 

Then,  take  the  child,  and  I  will  lead  the  way. 
What  now,  sir  ?     Will  you  neither  go  nor  stay  ? 

DAN. 

I  haint  a-gwine  to  tetch  dat  chile,   Mas'  Flo.  ! 
If  taint  a  goblin  hit's  de  debil,  sho' ! 
Why  don't  she  cry,  as  nat'rally  she  would 
If  'twas  a  human  chile  lost  in  de  wood  ? 
Look  at  her  frock,  as  green  as  meadow-grass, 
And  shiny  all  like  specks  of  isin'-glass; 
Dem  tangled  curls  is  all  in  elf-locks  tied — 
An'  jest  look  at  de  creeter's  eyes  !  how  wide 


FANTASMA. 

An'  full  of  mischief!  black  an'  shiny,   too, 
As  new  ripe  chinquapins  all  wet  wid  dew ! 
And,   now,   above  her  forehead,   what's  dat  ar? 
Dat  greenish  light,   a-tremblin'  like  a  star — 
Pale  fire,   dat  looks  so  like  a  fadin'  spark, 
Same  as  de  fox-fire,2  shinin'  in  de  dark? 

FLORIAN. 

Most  strange  and  beautiful!     What  may  this  be? 
Fair  child,   what  art  thou  ? 

ROSEMARY. 
I  am  Rosemary. 

DAN. 

Tell  you,   you  better  drop  dat  chile,   Mas'  Flo.  ! 
She  hang  you  wid  a  grape-vine,  fust  you  know, 
Or  strangle  you  wid  a  young  hazel-switch : 
For,   if  she  ain't  de  debil,  she's  a  witch. 

FLORIAN. 

Dan,   listen !  you  must  either  quickly  go 
And  find  what  is  the  light  that's  gleaming  so, 
Or  I  shall  go !     I  have  no  mind  to  stay 
Within  this  forest  till  the  dawn  of  day. 
I  know  not  why  you  feel  so  much  alarm; 
Thus  far,  the  ghosts  have  done  us  little  harm. 

DAN. 

Well,   ef  I  mus',   I  mus' :     I'm  'tween  two  fires; 
I  mus'  go  chasin'  through  de  brush  and  briers 


FANTASMA. 

Follerin'  Jack-ma-Lanters,  till  I'm  lost, 

Or  stay  here  wid  dat  chile;  and  hit's  a  ghost. 

I'd  jest  as  lief  to  go  as  .stay,   Mas'  Flo., 

For  I'm  afear'd  either  to  stay  or  go. 

Don't  quit  dis  place,   Mas'  Flo.,   de  debil's  in  it 

If  you  don't  see  me  back  in  half  a  minute ! 

[Exit. 
ROSEMARY. 

Yes,   Florian !     Dan  is  right!     Poor  ignorance 
Stumbles  on  knowledge,  by  some  guess  or  chance, 
Which  culture  misses. 

FLORIAN. 

You  are  not  a  ghost, 
Or  elf,    sweet   child  ? 

ROSEMARY. 

A  changeling  elf,   at  most ; 
A  fairy  child  who  loves   the  human  kind. 
To  mischief  much,    to   mirth   much   more  inclined. 
I  can,    upon  occasion,   put  away 
Mischief  and  merriment.     A  household   fay 
Am   I;  and  therefore  did  the  fairy  queen 
Send  me  to  be   your  guide — perhaps,   your  screen. 

FLORIAN. 

Sweet  wonder!     Wherefore   sent  your  queen   to  me? 
What  service  to  a   fairy  can  there  be 
In  my  bewildered  wandering  in   this  wood  ? 


FANTASMA.  23 

ROSEMARY. 

Ah,    heretofore  you  have  not  understood. 
To-night,    the   witches  hold  their  carnival, 
And   a  lost  mortal,    Satan's   willing  thrall, 
Will  join  them — not,    indeed,    to  share   their  sport; 
He  follows  evil  of  a  higher   sort. 
There  is   a  spirit-life,    whose   subtle  thread 
Links  the   blind  living   to   the   enlightened  dead, 
And  in   its  viewless   windings,    fold  on  fold, 
Sphere  within  sphere,    it  doth   creation   hold; — 
The   soul   of  the   material   universe, 
To  which   the  eye  of  science   cannot   pierce, 
Nor  reason  demonstrate  the  how  and  why 
Of  this,    the  Great  Supreme's   unuttered  mystery. 
Sometimes,    as  though   in   mockery  of  the   wise, 
The   gates   unclose  to  Superstition's   eyes, 
But  Ignorance  stops,   the  threshold  barely  crossed, 
Trembling  before  a  spectre  or  a  ghost. 
But  there  are   minds  of  a  far  higher   sort, 
Yet  lower,    who   the  powers  of  darkness  court 
For  gain  or  glory,    and  with   demons  hold 
Converse,   and  so   win  pleasure,  power  or  gold. 
Such  scruple  not  to  fling  their  souls  away 
For  the  vain  pageant  of  an  earthly  day. 
A  soul  may  be  so  dark,  so  steeped  in  sense, 
It  flies  from  light  as  from  a  pestilence, 
And,   could  it  to  the  gates  of  heaven  be  sent, 
Would  seek  hell,  as  a  lighter  punishment. 


24  FANTASMA. 

Such  were  the  powerful  Magians  of  the  eld, 
Who  with  the  dead  unhallowed  converse  held; 
And  such  a  soul,   although  far  less  in  power, 
Pollutes  our  grove  in  this,  the  witches'  hour. 

FLORIAN. 

But  what  is  this  unhappy  man  to  me? 
Can  I,  then,   win  him  from  his  infamy  ? 

ROSEMARY. 

Not  so;  but  you  can  from  like  evil  save 
A  soul  which  he  will  otherwise  enslave, — 
A  maiden-spirit,  beautiful  and  rare, 
White  as  a  snowflake  in  the  moonlit  air ; 
Yet  this  man  seeks  her  for  a  fatal  power, 
A  fairy-gift,  and  a  most  perilous  dower — 
Clear-visioned  soul  and  spirit-quickened  eyes 
That  pierce  the  veil  of  hidden  mysteries. 
Whoever  weds  her,   in  that  very  hour 
The  quickened  sight  is  his,   with  doubled  power ; 
But,   if  her  love  to  this  dark  soul  is  given, 
The  maid  is  lost  at   once   to  earth  and  heaven. 
Prevent  this  fatal   marriage !   for  it  lies 
With  you  to  slay  or  save  the  sacrifice ! 

FLORIAN. 

Fairy !     From   childhood  even   to   this   night 
My  dreams  have  still  been  blessed  with  forms  of  light 


FANTASMA.  25 

Who  breathed  strange   visions  into   my  dim   brain, 

Heightened   my   bliss   and  soothed  away   my  pain. 

And,    often   in  my  musing  solitude 

In  smiling  lowlands   or  in   bowery   wood, 

Glimpses  I   caught  of  forms  unearthly  fair, 

And  whispers   thrilled  the  lulled  and  listening   air 

That  promised  me  some  unimagined  bliss  : 

Surely,    there   is   no  greater  joy  than   this, 

To  guard,    to   save,    imperiled  purity ! 

Such   task   the  angels  well   might  envy  me  ! 

ROSEMARY. 

Come,   then  !     The  sorcerer  a  spell  has  laid 
Upon   this  hapless  and  most  innocent   maid, 
That  holds  her  in   deep   sleep.     In  her  own  room 
She   lies,    beneath  the  sheltering  roof  of  home, 
Yet,    ere  the  midnight  passes,    they   will  bring 
The  enchanted  maiden  to  the  witches'   ring. 
In  such   a  contest,    fairies  are  but  weak, 
And  yet  we  have  much  power.     From   you  we  seek 
The  matchless  strength  of  faith   and   purity; 
What  more  is  needed,    we   can  well  supply. 
Victory   in   this  is   for  the   pure  in  heart, 
The  gentle,    faithful,    brave :    and   such   thou   art ! 


26  FANTASMA. 


PART   SECOND. 


SCENE  I. — The  level  Uplands  overlooking  a  Lake  in  the  Wood. 
Voices  in  the  air  of  Unseen  Spirits. 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Come  away !    come  away  ! 

SECOND    VOICE. 
Haste,    oh!   haste  1   No  longer  stay ! 

FIRST   VOICE. 

For  the  midnight  hour  is   fleeting 
Which  should  see  our  joyous  meeting. 

SECOND   VOICE. 
Magic  dews  are  softly   falling; 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Your  familiar  spirits  calling ; 

SECOND  VOICE. 
Nightshade  here  is  rankly  growing; 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Hemlock  deepest  shadow   throwing; 


FANTASMA.  27 

SECOND   VOICE. 
Here   the  wreathed  snake  is  tracing; 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Venomed  laurels   interlacing; 

SECOND   VOICE. 
Deadly  blooms  their  leaves  unfurling; 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Vapors   from   the  marsh  up-curling; 

SECOND   VOICE. 
Here   the  shades  of  night  come  quickly ; 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Here  the  rankest  weeds  grow   thickly; 

SECOND   VOICE. 
Here  the  muffled   owl   is  sitting; 

FIRST    VOICE. 
Here  the  leathern  bats  are   flitting; 

SECOND   VOICE. 
Here   the  shriveled  toad   is  leaping; 

FIRST   VOICE. 
Poison-vines  are  thickly   creeping ; 


28  FANTASMA. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Earth's  untold  and  hideous  evils 
Here  are   hoarded  for  your   revels. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Ere  the  blooms  of  midnight   wither, 
Daughters   of  the   Night,   come  hither  ! 

SECOND   VOICE. 

While  the  dews  of  midnight  glitter 
On  the  nightshade  black  and  bitter, 
Sons  of  Darkness,   do  not  stay ! 

BOTH    VOICES. 
Come  away  !    come  away  ! 

Enter  WITCHES  and  WIZARDS;  to  them,  BEAUCLERC. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Ah,  wild  and  wicked  wanderers  of  the  night! 
Our  circle  now  is  rounded  and  complete 
In  number  as  the  still  and  charmed  hour 
Wherein  gray  morning  clasps  the  hand  of  night. 

FIRST    WITCH. 
Welcome!  most  welcome. 

FIRST    WIZARD. 

Wherefore  are  you  late? 


FANTASMA.  29 

SECOND   WIZARD. 
Where  is  the  maiden  you  should  bring  with  you  ? 

BEAUCLERC. 

Be  patient,  all.      —Ye  know  the  ruined  mill 
And  the  gray  hermit  dwelling  there  ? 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Indeed, 
We  know  him,  and  with  reason. 

BEAUCLERC. 

He,  our  foe, 

Whom  even  the  harmless  wood-sprites  fear  and  shun, 
He  must  be  cast  into  profoundest  sleep, 
Or  else  removed  from  the  enchanted  wood ; 
His  presence  here  is  fatal  to  our  power, 
For  he  is  one  of  those  born  torturers 
Who  think  to  win  that  fabled  heaven  of  theirs, 
(Hard  as  their  hearts  and  narrow  as  their  creed,) 
By  making  hell  of  earth.     He,  from  the  world 
Flying,  because  no  worship  now  is  paid 
To  priests  or  kings  as  in  the  earth's  young  years, 
Dwells  in  this  wood,  a  lonely  self-tormentor, 
Vexing  free  nature  with  his  prayers  and  groans. 
I  say,  this  dotard's  tongue  must  be  kept  still ; 
Ay,  even  all  thought  be  banished  from  his  brain, 
Or  our  familiars  lose  their  wonted  power. 


3o  FANTASMA. 

FIRST  WITCH. 

Let  two  of  us  cast  on  him  that  strong  spell 
That  bound  young  Lucia.     It  has  never  failed. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Yes,  go,  and  put  the  powerful  charm  to  proof; 
But  venture  not  beneath  the  hermit's  roof. 
Remember,  if  he  should  awake,  our  pain 
Is  profitless;  our  invocations  vain. 

\Exit  ist  Witch  and  ist  Wizard. 

Haste  we  to  brighten  this  wild  forest's  gloom 
With  beauty  in  its  full  and  perfect  bloom. 

Spirits  to  my  bidding  rise  ; 

Spirits,  beautiful  and  free, 
Hasten  to  the  place  where  lies 

The  maiden,  sleeping  dreamlessly. 
Thither,  on  untiring  wing 

Through  the  shades  of  midnight  sweep  ; 
Sweep,  with  speed  of  thought,  and  bring 

The  maiden  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

Two  beautiful  DEMONS  descend,  bearing  LUCIA,  asleep,  veiled, 
and  crowned  with  poppies.  They  place  her  in  the  midst 
of  the  Circle. 


FANTASMA.  31 

SECOND  WIZARD. 
O  Beautiful ! 

THIRD  WIZARD. 

Most  lovely,  if  the  face 
Is  half  so  fair  as  that  exquisite  form. 

SECOND  WITCH. 

But  wherefore  does  she  wear  that  shining  veil, 
And  wreath  of  poppies,  crimson  and  milkwhite  ? 

BEAUCLERC. 

That  garland  brings  forgetfulness;  that  veil — 
While  shrouded  in  that  veil,  no  voice  but  mine 
Has  power  to  break  her  deep,  entranced  sleep. 
The  hour  is  waning;  join  ye  hand  in  hand; 
When  she  awakens,  she  will  soulless  be 
And  mindless,  as  unconscious  infancy. 

CHANT. 
By  the  strong,  unhallowed  power 

Which  is  ours,  in  this  wild  hour, 
We,  the  ministers  of  hell, 

Break  thy  magic  garland's  spell. 
Ere  the  witches'  circle  break, 

Maiden,  from  thy  sleep  awake; 
Ere  the  hour  of  midnight  flies, 

Maiden,  from  thy  trance  arise ! 

LUCIA  awakes  and  stands  in  the  midst  of  the  Ring. 


FANTASMA. 

BEAUCLERC  (to  the  witches,  etc.] 
Assume  whatever  shape  best  pleases  you, 
To  wait  upon  our  Master,  who,  to-night 
Will  join  our  revels  at  the  ruined  church. 
Then,  till  the  dawning  day,  ye  all  have  power 
To  work  your  wills,  so  that  you  do  no  good. 

THIRD  WITCH. 

I'll  take  the  bright  form  of  a  humming  bird, 
And  (service  to  our  Master  done)  will  flit 
Through  the  spice-breathing  groves  of  Florida. 

SECOND  WIZARD. 

I,  like  a  spotted  snake,  will  coil  in  weeds, 
And  strike  the  unwary  who  shall  pass  thereby. 

BEAUCLERC. 
Lucia,  the  stars  are  on  the  lake  ; 

Come,  draw  your  veil  aside, 
That  hides  the  liquid  light  of  eyes 
Softer  than  any  star  that  lies 

Upon  the  trembling  tide. 

The  silver-rippling  waves  that  break 

Along  the  willowed  shore, 
Sing  like  the  music  memories  make 

Of  dreaming  days  of  yore. 
But  speak  !  The  sighing  wind  will  hush, 

The  listening  lake  lie  still, 


FANTASMA.  33 

And  mocking-bird  and  tender  thrush, l 
Be  silent  on  the  hill! 

LUCIA. 

O  beautiful,  new  world  !     How  strangely  fair ; 
Could  I  not  float  upon  the  soft  night  air, 
Or  dance  upon  the  shining  lake  afar, 
Like  the  reflection  of  that  lovely  star  ? 

FOURTH  WITCH. 
The  night-wind  rushes,  wild  and  free, 

Down  from  the  distant  river  ! 
The  wayward  wind,  so  fresh  and  free, 

So  fetterless  and  light ! 
O  would  that  I  those  winds  could  be, 

And  rove  the  world  forever, 
With  none  to  curb  or  question  me ; 

With  none  to  doubt  my  right. 

(A  strain  of  wild  and  melancholy  music.) 

BEAUCLERC. 

Lucia,  draw  close  your  veil  about  your  face, 
An  enemy  approaches — wJiat,  I  know  not, 
Or  mortal,  or  a  spirit  of  the  wood. 

Enter  FLORIAN  ;  ROSEMARY  follows,  invisible. 

Depart !  and  take  our  novice  hence  with  you 

'  Witches  and   Wizards  ascend  with  Lucia  and  vanish. ) 


FANTASMA. 

Who  are  you,  that  durst  break  the  witches'  ring? 
You  are  not  mortal ;  else  you  have  the  aid 
Of  those  who  are  not ! 

FLORIAN. 

O  thou  vile  magician  ! 
Where  is  the  maid  whom  thy  inhuman  art 
Has  blinded  and  beguiled  ?     Be  sure  of  this, 
That  from  this  forest  thou  shalt  not  depart 
Till  thou  hast  freed  her  from  thy  cruel  spells. 

BEAUCLERC. 

A  face  too  girlish  for  a  tongue  so  bold ! 
I  know  thee  well,  although  thou  knowest  not  me, 
Fair  youth ;  I'll  try  the  power  of  that  same  art 
On  thee,  who  durst  so  rudely  challenge  me. 
I  charge  thee,  by  this  rod,  and  by  its  power, 
And  by  the  Power  that  gives  its  magic  strength — 
Stir  not,  nor  leave  the  spot  whereon  thou  standest, 
Till  I  release  and  tell  thee  to  depart ! 

FLORIAN. 

I  laugh  thee  and  thy  power  to  scorn  !     Thou  seest, 
I  move  ;  and  I  will  try  another  power  ; 
The  strength  that  Nature  gave  me. — This  is  strange  ! 
Something  repels  me,  when  I  would  approach  ; 
Yet  he  had  not  the  power  to  fetter  me  ! 


FANTASMA.  35 

ROSEMARY  (appearing). 

Forbear  !     He  has  no  power  on  you,  indeed, 
Nor  have  you  power  on  him. 
The  weight  of  good  and  evil  balance  here. 

FLORIAN. 

That  may  not  be,  for  Goodness  is  Supreme. 
If  I  but  trusted  in  my  own  weak  arm, 
I  were  already  vanquished. 

BEAUCLERC. 

So  thou  art ! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  power  that  is  thy  friend. 
A  dewdrop  shall  the  red  volcano  quench 
When  thou  and  thine  shall  conquer  mine  or  me  ! 

{Exit. 
FLORIAN. 

And  yet,  he  flies !     Nay,  I  will  follow  him  ! 
Fairy,  think  not  to  turn  or  stay  me,  now. 

ROSEMARY. 

But  you  must  hear  me  !     I  have  disobeyed 
The  fairy-queen's  commands  to  bring  you  here ; 
She  bade  me  lead  you  to  her  woodland  bower. 
This  man  is  shielded  by  a  dreadful  Power ; 
And,  Florian,  good  can  never  spring  from  ill; 
Success  comes  not  to  disobedience. 
Turn  not  away,  nor  bend  impatient  brows, 
For  haste  is  still  the  parent  of  defeat, 


36  'FANTASMA. 

And  I  have  sinned,  in  that  I  disobeyed, 
For  sin  and  disobedience  are  one. 

FLORIAN. 
Then  haste  we  to  your  queen  Fantasma's  bower. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Before  the  Hermit's  Mill  on   the  edge  of  the  wood. 
Enter  DAN. 

DAN. 

Well,  here  I  is,  at  las',  and  dars  de  light 
Dat  brought  me  here.     Dis  time  Mas'  Flo.  was  right ; 
Hits  in  de  mill ;  de  ole  man's  still  awake. 
I'll  knock,  and  gin  de  do'  a  little  shake 
To  make  him  come  de  quicker.   (Knocks.}  I  jes'  feels 
As  ef  a  dozen  ghosts  was  at  my  heels. 
A  nigger  better  be  uncommon  good 
Dat  walks  at  midnight  through  dis  fetched  wood. 
Dis  nigger'll  never  pester  hit  no  mo,' 
Ef  he  gits  outen  it  dis  time,  dat's  sho' ! 

[Knocks. 
Ole  man  !     Ole  man  !     Come,  open  dis  here  do' ! 

Enter  from  the  Mill,  the  HERMIT. 

HERMIT. 
Who  or  what  is  it,  visits  me  so  late  ? 


FANTASMA.  37 

t 

DAN. 

Hits  me,  Sir — Dan.     You  know  me,  Sir  ? 

HERMIT. 

I  think, 

Indeed,  I  know  you.     Whither  do  you  go, 
And  whence  come  you,  at  this  untimely  hour  ? 

DAN. 

I  hain't  abroad  on  my  own  business,  Mahs' ; 
Niggers  don't  roam  so  late  widout  a  pass, 
And,  if  dey  does,  dey  don't  make  midnight  ja'nts 
Through  lonesome  woods  dat's  all  alive  wid  ha'nts. 

HERMIT. 

Tell  me,  in  brief;  stand  you  in  need  of  help, 
Of  food  or  lodging  for  the  night  ?     Your  wants, 
In  either  case,  I  gladly  will  supply, 
For,  ''tis  my  duty,  no  less  than  my  pleasure, 
To  succor  all  who  stand  in  need  of  help, 
And  aid  them  to  the  limit  of  my  power. 

DAN. 

Me  and  Mas'  Flo.,  we  done  got  los',  we  is, 
Fol'rin'  a  Jack-ma-lanter'  through  de  woods. 

HERMIT. 

Hither,  then,  bring  your  master,  whom  I  know. 
And  any  who  may  be  with  him.      Return, 


38  FANTASMA. 

* 

Nor  stand  thus  idly,  lest  they  further  stray, 
And  lose  themselves  yet  deeper  in  the  wood. 

DAN. 

O !  Sir,  for  pity's  sake,  don't  send  me  back, 
Or,  (if  you  does),  go  wid  me  !     Hits  a  fac', 
In  daylight,  I'm  as  brave  as  any  man, 
But,  dis  here  night  has  been  too  much  for  Dan  ; 
Jack-o'-ma-lanters,  fust,  and  den  a  witch ; 
And  now,  de  night's  done  turned  as  black  as  pitch, 
Like  as  a  storm  was  comin'.     Sir,  I  know 
Dere's  witches  in  dese  woods — it's  sartain,  sho' ! 
If  /goes  back,  for  goodness  sake,  you  go  ! 

HERMIT. 

I  do  not  scorn  your  natural  fear,  good  Dan ; 
Long  have  I  dwelt  within  the  forest  here, 
And  many  wondrous  things  have  pondered  on, — 
Things  that  the  wisest  cannot  all  explain. 
Yet,  this  believe  ;  that  darkness  shuns  the  light, 
And  evil,  boldly  faced,  from  goodness  flies. 
It  is  the  guilt  of  our  own  conscious  hearts, 
And  not  our  enemy,  that  conquers  us. 

DAN. 

I  know  it,  Mas',  and  I  been  awful  mean  ! 
But,  if  you  can't  go  wid  me,  I'll  go  back, 
Ruther  than  leave  Mas'  Flo. ;  for  goodness  knows 
What's  come  o1  him  and  dat  ar  goblin  chile. 


FANTASMA.  39 

HERMIT. 

Why,  now  you  speak  right  manly  !     I  will  go 
Into  the  wood  with  you.     The  impending  storm 
Will,  as  I  think,  last  but  a  little  while, 
Yet  threatens  to  be  violent. — Tell  me,  Dan, 
What  mean  you,  talking  of  a  goblin  child  ? 

DAN. 

Why,  hits  a  witch,  Sir,  as  I  said  befo'. 
We  found  her  sleepin'  in  de  wood.     Mas'  Flo., 
Who  don't  mind  nothin'  'tall  'bout  ghosts  and  sich, 
He  wouldn't  b'live  de  pretty  thing's  a  witch. 

\Thunder. 

HERMIT. 

Stand  close,  good  Dan.     There's  evil  in  the  air, 
And  danger  threatens  me.     Nay,  tremble  not ! 
We  are  shielded  by  the  overruling  Goodness. 
Stand  silent  in  the  shade,  and  have  no  fear. 
Enter  WITCH  and  WIZARD. 

WIZARD. 
Come,  let  us  lose  no  time !     Night  wears  away. 

WITCH. 

I  almost  fear  to  practice  on- this  man. 
I  tremble,  when  by  some  unhappy  chance 
I  meet  him  in  my  walks  about  the  wood, 
And  shrink  away  from  meeting  his  strong  eye. 
I  even  fear  the  light  that  falls  upon 


40  FANTASMA. 

His  reverend  beard  and  silver  hair  unshorn. 
What  if  the  charm  should  fail  ? 

WIZARD. 

It  never  fails, 

For  all  the  powers  of  air  have  given  it  strength. 
Did  it  not  bind  young  Lucia  ?     Who  more  pure 
Or  more  devout  than  she  ?     And  yet  she  lies 
Helpless  beneath  the  power  of  this  strong  spell. 

WITCH. 
Well,  speak  it  then  !     The  thronging  demons   wait. 

INVOCATION. 
Hither,  ye  spirits  of  enchanted  sleep, 

Hither,  sweep  ! 

On  winds  that  shake  the  moaning  pines,  and  wake 
The  rising  waves  of  the  darkening  lake  ! 
Come  !     In  the  drowsy  fogs  that  slowly  creep 

From  the  marshy  brake  ! 

Whatever  spells  ye  keep  of  silence  or  of  sleep 
Pour  on  the  troubled  air  till  dumbness  conquers  prayer, 
And  no  vain  dreamings  of  impossible  good 
Disturb  our  revels  in  the  haunted  wood ! 
•     Hermit,  sleep ! 

Sleep  !     We  have  bound  thee,  body,  soul  and  brain  ! 
Sleep  soundly,  profoundly,  nor  waken  again, 
Till  we  have  unbound  thee,  and  loosened  the  chain 
Wherein  we  have  wound  thee,  soul,  body  and  brain. 


FANTASMA.  41 

Enter  another  WIZARD. 

SECOND    WIZARD. 
Say,  is  it  done  ? 

FIRST  WIZARD. 

'Tis  done,  and  thoroughly  ! 
If  spells  can  bind,  he  will  not  wake  to-night. 

SECOND  WIZARD. 

Haste,  then,  to  join  us  at  the  ruined  church, 
Where  our  dark  Master  leads  the  revelry. 
We  need  his  aid,  for  most  inopportune, 
Strange  and  unlooked  for  interruption  came 
To  our  wild  circle,  at  the  very  height 
Of  joy,  and  every  promise  of  success. 
Scarcely  Beauclerc  had  waked  the  sleeping  maid, 
When  the  rash  youth,  young  Florian,  burst  upon  us, 
Set  on  and  aided  by  the  fairy  queen, 
In  hope  to  snatch  from  us  the  valued  prize. 
Beauclerc  withstood  the  fairy-favored  youth, 
And  we  bore  off  the  prize,  our  tranced  girl ; 
And  I  am  sent  to  bid  ye  come  with  haste 
To  the  old  church.     She  must  be  one  of  us, 
At  any  cost,  and  with  all  speed.     The  storm 

[  Thunder. 

Whose  darkness  adds  new  terror  to  the  wood 
Will  rid  us  of  the  meddling  fairy-crew, 
Our  flimsy  foes ;  they  fly  from  the   wild  strife 


42  FANTASMA. 

Of  the  warring  elements  to  fairy-land. 

These,  and  the  Hermit,  only  need  we  fear. 

The  Hermit  ye  have  chained  ;  an  enemy 

Right  formidable  ;  but  the  unstable  fays 

Are  little  to  be  dreaded.      Even  their  queen, 

Fantasma  of  the  shining  brow,  is  weak, 

Save  in  the  wavering  strength  that  beauty  gives. 

[  Thunder  and  Lightning.     A  Storm, 

FIRST  WIZARD. 

Despise  not  overmuch  Fantasma's  power. 
Our  Master  has  not  raised  this  storm  for  naught. 

WITCH. 

Come,  come,  and  let  us  hasten  to  the  church  ! 
We  waste  the  night,  which  should  be  given  to  mirth. 
\Storm  continues.      They  rue  and  disappear  singing : 
Away,  away,  on  the  winds  we  fly, 
On  fogs,  that  rise  from  the  lake  hard  by ; 
On  flitting  bat,  and  screeching  owl, 
And  clouds  that  on  the  landscape  scowl  ! 

HERMIT. 

Thus  have  you  been  the  instrument  of  heaven, 
Good  Dan,  to  save  me  from  the  witches'  spell , 
Perchance  to  save  the  maid  of  whom  they  spoke 
And  bright,  young  Florian. 


FANTASMA.  43 

DAN. 

O  my  soul,  dear  Mas'. 
I  skeered  so  bad  I  dunno  whar  I  is ! 
Let's  go  right  on  to  dat  ole  church,  and  so 
Find  out  what  dey  bin  done  wid  po'  Mas'  Flo.  ! 

HERMIT. 

First,  seek  the  spot  where  you  left  Florian ; 

It  must  lie  in  direction  of  the  church, 

Since  you  have  crossed  the  wood  in  coming  here. 

If  Florian  has,  indeed,  gone  from  the  place, 

Then  we  will  seek  the  old,  deserted  church 

Which  they  have  desecrated  with  vile  orgies. 

Courage,  and  forward,  Dan  !     Good  must  prevail ! 


44  FANTASMA. 


PART  THIRD. 

SCENE  I.  A  Flowery  Glen  between  Rocky  Cliffs.  FANTASMA, 
as  the  Fairy  Queen,  swinging  in  her  hammock  under  a 
canopy  of  Grape  and  Muscadine.  x  Fauns  and  Fairies. 

FANTASMA. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  yet  they  do  not  come  ! 
My  eager  eyes  would  pierce  the  moonless  gloom 
To  meet  those  forms  that  yet  do  not  appear. 
Harm  has  befallen  them,  I  sadly  fear  ! 

Azalea,  draw  more  near  ; 
This  crimson  trumpet  from  the  creeper  take, 
And  sound  a  fairy  peal,  that  echoes  may  awake ; 
So  shall  they  catch  the  echoes  as  they  fly, 

And  hearing,  make  reply ! 

[AZALEA  sounds  a  peal. 
The  echoes  die,  and  bring  us  no  reply ! 

LAVENDER,  (a fairy). 
O  queen,  Fantasma,  at  thy  grief 
The  trembling  dew  slides,  tear-like,  from  the  leaf, 

The  night-blooms  weep, 
And  all  the  folded  flowers  awake  from  sleep, 


FANTASMA.  45 

And  sadness  falls  upon  the  fairy  crowd. 

Vain  is  thy  fear  ! 
Ere  the  full  moon  arises  from  the  cloud, 

The  wanderers  will  be  here. 

FANTASMA. 

Where  is  the  wildfire  whose  bewildering  light 
Drew  Florian  to  the  haunted  wood  to-night  ? 
Lights  dance  through   the  forest ;    one  approaches   FANTASMA, 

borne  by  JACK-O-LANTERN. 
Go,  glancing  Wildfire !  and,  within  the  hour, 
Bring  Florian  and  Rosemary  to  my  bower. 

JACK-O-LANTERN. 

I  flicker  and  fly,  in  the  flash  of  an  eye ; 
As  the  gleam  of  a  star  that  shoots  through  the  sky. 

\_Heflits  into  the  forest. 

FANTASMA. 

Sweet  Lavender,  come  near  to  me ! 
Thou  and  thy  gentle  sister  Rosemary 
Are  not  the  least  beloved  of  thy  queen, 
Among  those  shapes  that  dance  upon  the  green 
Or  sprinkle  with  fresh  dews  the  grassy  lea. 
And  let  me  hear  thy  voice  most  clear, 
•    Sweet  Eglantine,  the  soul  of  poesy ; 

Whose  bosom,  in  its  gentle  rise  and  fall, 
Flutters  the  winglets  of  the  butterfly 
Which  ever  does  in  azure  beauty  lie 


46  FANTASMA. 

Upon  thy  breast,  O  thou  most  fair  of  all  ! 

The  lightest  word  thy  honeyed  lips  let  fall. 
Nay,  the  least  motion  of  thy  soft  light  hair. 
Fills  with  sweet  murmurs  the  delighted  air, 

And  wakes  the  wild  glade's  echoes  musical. 

EGLANTINE,  (a  fairy). 

Come,  fairies,  cheer  our  queen  with  song  and  sport ; 
So  shall  the  merry  moments  seem  too  short. 

SONG. 

Let  the  hammock  lightly  swing, 
Like  a  bird  upon  the  wing '. 
It  is  braided  through  and  through 
With  willow-shoots  and  green  bamboo;2 
With  lace-bark  woven  all  across, 
And  filaments  of  long,  gray  moss; 
Lined  with  humming-bird's  rich  plumes  ; 
Wreathed  about  with  ivy- blooms  !3 
Rock  our  queen  upon  its  bosom, 
Like  the  fringe-tree's  waving  blossom  ; 
Like  an  oriole  in  her  nest, 
Swan  upon  a  river's  breast, 
Lily  on  a  streamlet  swinging, 
Mocking-bird  in  moonlight  singing  '.* 

FANTASMA. 

Come,  tell  me,  laughing  faun  and  merry  fay, 
What  hast  thou  done,  to-night  or  yesterday  ? 


FANTASMA.  47 

Laurel,  begin,  sweet  mountain  sprite  ! 
What  task  has  thou  performed,  this  night  ? 

LAUREL,  (a  fairy"). 
I  have  been  stringing  berries  red  as  coral. 

To  twine  thy  long,  bright  hair, 
And  I  have  wreathed  of  my  own  mountain-laurel, 

A  crown  for  thee  to  wear. 

MORNING-GLORY,  (a  fairy). 
This  morning,  I  unfolded  to  the  dew 

My  tender  blue, 

And  to  the  bluebird's  glancing  eye 
I  seemed  a  piece  of  summer  sky, 

So  like  himself  in  hue 
He  could  not  pass  me  by  ; 
So  from  his  shining  pinions  he  let  fall 
These  azure  plumes  that  deck  my  coronal. 

WOODBINE,5  (a fairy). 
And  what  the  bluebird  did  for  thee 
The  beautiful  wild  redbird  did  for  me, 
And  scattered  from  his  scarlet  breast 
The  fiery  plumes  that  blaze  upon  my  crest. 
And  what  hast  thou  done,  dark-eyed  faun  ? 

HAZEL,   (a  faun). 
I  caught  the  liquid  gems  of  dawn, 
And  sowed  them  thicklv  on  the  velvet  moss 


48  FANTASMA. 

And  wildflowers  sweet, 
And  ferns,  that  line  this  valley  all  across, 
To  fit  it  for  Fantasma's  fairy  feet. 

'    SILVERLEAF,    (another faun). 
I  found  the  wild  cucumber-tree, 6 
And  of  its  long  leaves,  two  or  three 
I  made  into  a  cup  as  greenly  bright 
As  costly  chalice,  carved  of  malachite  ; 
Then  filled  it  from  the  fountain's  inner  veins, 
And  mixed  therewith  the  juice  of  sugar-canes, 
And  held  it  to  the  thin  and  pallid  lip 
Of  a  young  child,  who  daily  comes  to  dip 
Her  pitcher  in  the  forest  spring. 
She  is  a  sad  and  gentle  thing; 
But  when  she  drank  of  my  green  cup  to-day, 
She  brightly  smiled,  and  lightly  tripped  away ! 

FANTASMA. 

My  gentle  faun,  thou  hast  done  well,  indeed ! 
To  give  what  ease  they  may,  to  hearts  that  bleed, 
To  cheer  the  friendless,  driving  care  away — 
This  is  the  sweetest  task  of  faun  or  fay. 

EGLANTINE. 

A  group  of  tall  magnolia  trees 
I  saw  to-day,  tossing  upon  the  breeze 
The  waxen  petals  of  their  flowers  full-blown ; 
In  languid  beauty  softly  floating  down, 


FANTASMA.  49 

Like  flying  swans  that  lightly  settle 

Upon  a  forest  lake,  each  broad,  white  petal 

Fell,  wavering  to  the  grass.     And  then  I  ran 

And  chose  one,  large  enough  to  be  the  fan 

Perfumed  and  satin-shining  that  is  swayed 

By  the  fair  fingers  of  a  mortal  maid, 

And  beautiful  enough  to  be  the  screen 

That  shuts  the'moonlight  from  our  own  sweet  queen. 

FANTASMA. 

Eglantine,  my  sweet, 

I  see  the  dance  makes  light  my  elfins'  feet ; 
Lead  the  light  fairies  in  a  lovely  ring 
Of  dancers,  gliding  slow  and  circling  fleet, 
As  dimpling  eddies  where  two  streamlets  meet. 
Let  flute  and  voice  be  mingled  as  you  sing. 

SONG. 
Magic  dews  of  midnight  glisten 

Through  our  fairy  glen, 
For  the  full  moon  has  risen 

From  the  clouds  again, 
And  her  liquid  light  is  glancing 

Through  the  flowery  glade 
Where    our  sister  fays  are    dancing 

In  the  flickering  shade. 
The  sweetest  dews  we'll  gather  up, 
And  fill  with  them   the  lily's  cup, 


50  FANTASMA. 

To  freshen  lips  that   wasting  grief 
Has  withered  like  an  autumn  leaf. 

Here  the  shining  ivy's  drooping 

From  the  rocky  wall ; 
Here  the  ash-tree's   tassels  stooping — 

Fairest  tree  of  all ! 
Here  the  eglantine  is  flinging    • 

Fragrance  through  the  groves ; 
Here  the  mocking-bird  is  singing 

In  the  light  he  loves. 
We'll  weave  to-night  a  fairy  wreath, 

And  fairy  dreams  about  it  breathe, 
And  on  sad,   sleeping  brows  will  lay, 

To  banish  cruel  care  away. 

O'er  the  placid  stream  is  bending 

The  narcissus  pale, 
With  the  sweet-fern's  odor  blending 

Fragrance  faint  and  frail ; 
The  poppy  sleeps,  though  light  is  sifting 

O'er  her  blossoms  bright ; 
But  the  heartsease  wakes,  up-lifting 

Glad  looks  to  the  light. 
We'll  gather  blossom,  leaf,  and  stem, 
And  bind  the  almond-flower  with  them, 
And  place  them  on  the  troubled  heart, 
That  peace  may  come  and  pain  depart. 


FANTASMA.  51 

FANTASMA. 

Cease,  cease  !  The  wildfire  dances  through  the  gloom ; 
I  breathe  the  evanescent,  faint  perfume 
From  the  green  garland  of  sweet  Rosemary ; 
And  now,  young  Florian's  own  fair  form  I  see ! 

Enter  JACK-O-LANTERN,  ROSEMARY  and  FLORIAN. 

JACK-O-LANTERN. 

I  danced  through  the  forest  with  sparkle  and  flicker ; 
Ever  the  forest  grew  thicker  and  thicker ; 
Ever  my  sparkle  went  quicker  and  quicker, 
Until  I  had  found  them,  and  circling  around  them, 
I  led  them  once  more  as  I  led  them  before. 

FLORIAN. 

So  many  wonders  have  I  seen  to-night 
Thy  wondrous  beauty  dazzles  not  my  sight, 
O,  seeming  woman  !     O,  most  lovely  shape, 
Throned  airily  beneath  thy  bower  of  grape ! 
Crowned  with  a  truly  fairy  coronet 
Of  trembling  sensitive  vines,  all  dewy  wet, 
With  feathery  foliage,  blooms  like  tufted  fringes, 
Or  downy  globes  with  delicate  pink  tinges! 
Sweet  is  the  star  that  o'er  thy  forehead  trembles ; 
Sweeter  the  eyes  whose  light  that  star  resembles  ! 
Enchanting  vision,  art  thou  witch  or  fairy  ? 
Mortal,  or  bright  dream  of  a  visionary? 


52  FANTASMA. 

FANTASMA. 

Look  in  my  face  more  closely.     Dost  thou  see 
Nothing  that  awakes  a  memory  of  me  ? 

FLORIAN. 

O,  all  too  much !     From  childhood  to  this  day 
Thy  light  divine  has  been  around  my  way  ! 
Thou  soul  of  Beauty,  lamp  of  my  bright  past, 
Joy  of  the  present,  art  thou  mine  at  last  ? 
And  hast  thou  broken  that  fine  mystery, 
That  like  a  crystal  wall  surrounded  thee, 
Through  which  I  could  not  pass,  yet  could  most  clearly 
see? 

FANTASMA. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  has  come  the  happy  day 
When  that  bright  wall  shall  melt  like  mist  away, 
And  spirit  walk  dismantled  of  its  clay ! 
But,  Florian,  from  thy  happy  past  recall 
One  hour  that  seems  to  thee  the  best  of  all— 
The  hour  of  perfect  bliss,  whatever  it  be, 
Recall  it  in  its  almost  witchery. 

FLORIAN. 

All  the  buried  hours,  arising  at  thy  call,  embodied  came, 
Flashing   by  in  long-lost  brightness,  like  a  sudden  burst  of 

flame; 

But  of  all  the  hours,  Fantasma,  that  awoke  at  memory's  call, 
One  there  is,  by  far  the  brightest  and  the  best  among  them  all. 


FANTASMA.  53 

I  was  in  the  earliest  childhood  that  is  conscious  of  a  soul ; 
And  the  sweet  waves  of  existence  came  and  went  with  silver 

roll, 

Bringing  to  us  childish  treasures :  for  I  did  not  walk  alone  : 
Hand  in  hand  with  me  went  ever  my  twin-sister:  two  in  one, 
Moved  our  spirits,  softly  blended  :  in  that  hour,  whose  glory 

now 
Shines  about  me,  we  together  took  thy  sign  upon  the  brow ! 

We  were  at  an  open  window,  looking  out  upon  the  night, 
On  the  deep  and  solemn  heavens,    flooded  with  the  trancing 

light 
Of  the  mystic  moon,  whose   silence  lay  on  all  things  like  a 

spell ; 

Even  the  mocking-bird  was  silent;  only,  with  a  softened  swell, 
Came  the  murmur  of  the  river,  flowing,  ever  flowing  down 
From  the  heart  of  azure  mountains  curving  past   the  lovely 

town, 
Winding  through  the  fringing  willows,  past  the  greenly  rising 

hills; 
Blooming  spice  along  its  borders  all  the  air  with  fragrance 

fills: 

It  was  early  spring,  but  milder  than  it  sometimes  is  in  May ; 
Though  the  grass  was  thickly  springing,   here  and  there  the 

snow-wreaths  lay. 

Thawing  ice  upon  the  terrace  sparkled  with  pale,  pearly  hue; 
Faint,  sweet  odors  came  and  told  us  where  the  wild  arbutus 
grew, 


54  FANTASMA. 

And  the  violet's  stronger  fragrance  rose  like  incense  to  the 

moon  : 
Chilly  March  a  night  had  stolen  from  the  glowing  month  of 

June. 

Then  the  mocking-bird,  whose  silence  had  drunk  melody  like 

wine, 
Poured  for  us  a  song  whose  sweetness  only  could  be  matched 

with  thine  ! 

For,  in  thy  supernal  beauty,  thou  didst  stand  before  us  there — 
Not  so  rich  the  moon's  white  glory,  not  so  sweet  the  flowing 

air! 

At  thy  touch  the  waking  spirit  saw  the  Earth  before  it  lie, 
In  her  beauty  and  her  glory,  in  her  heaven-taught  melody ! 
And  of  happy  hours  and  shining  that  awake  at  memory's  call, 
That  to  me  is  still  the  brightest  and  the  best  among  them  all ! 

FANTASMA> 

This  night  shall  bring  thee  all  I  promised  thee, 
If  thou  art  worthy  to  be  loved  of  me ; 
But  thou  must  not  be  lightly  moved,  indeed, 
By  every  breath,  like  to  a  wind-swept  reed. 
Already  thine  own  word  thou  hast  forgot ; 
Thy  promise  that  thou  wouldst  not  leave  the  spot 
Whereon  thy  servant  left  thee,  till  he  came. 

FLORIAN. 

I  did,  in  truth,  forget,  I  own  with  shame. 
Not  my  word  only,  but  my  servant,  too ! 
I  must  return  for  him — 


FANTASMA.  55 

FANTASMA. 

Nay,  nay,  not  so  ! 

For  he  is  with  the  Hermit  of  the  Mill, 
And  spirits  watch,  to  guard  them  both  from  ill. 
'Tis  better  thus.     He  could  not  go  with  thee 
Whither  I  would  that  thou  shouldst  follow  me, 
Thou  and  the  maiden  whom  thou  shalt  set  free. 
Before  this  time  her  freedom  had  been  won, 
But  for  Rosemary's  fault.     Was  it  well  done, 

0  Fay !  impatiently  to  rush  upon 

Dangers  thou  couldst  not  know  ?     Hadst  thou  obeyed, 
Ere  now  had  been  set  free  this  helpless  maid. 
Weep  not !     Thou  shalt  retrieve  the  fault  this  night. 

\_Loud  Thunder. 

See  !  the  full  moon  again  withdraws  her  light, 
For  evil  is  abroad,  and  storm-winds  come 
To  drive  my  fairies  to  their  own  bright  home. 

1  'cannot  long  defy  the  storm-king's  power, 
For  he  will  sweep  in  fury  through  my  bower. 
Me,  he  can  harm  not,  but  my  tender  fays 

Love  moonlit  nights,  and  long,  sweet  summer-days; 

Therefore,  I  now  dismiss  my  fairy  train, 

That  they  may  shun  the  coming  flood  of  rain ; 

But,  thou,  my  gentle  Rosemary,  remain. 

By  thy  sweet  power  and  Jack-o'- Lantern's  light, 

We  will  aid  Florian  in  his  quest  to-night. 

\Thunder,     The  Fairies  vanish. 
Thou,  Florian,  must  retrace  the  forest  wide, 


56  FANTASMA. 

And  be  the  dancing  Will-o'-the-Wisp  our  guide; 
And  I  will  teach  thee  all  that  must  be  done, 
Ere  from  her  foe  the  maiden  can  be  won. 
Rosemary,  come,  we  walk  invisibly. 

FLORTAN. 

Whither  thou  wilt,  I'll  freely  follow  thee. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Before  the  ruined  Church.     Storm.     Enter  HERMIT 
and  DAN. 

HERMIT. 

Here  is  the  Church.     In  other,  happier  days, 
True  servants  of  the  ONE  whom  all  should  praise 
Held  fitting  worship  here ;  now,  slaves  of  sin 
With  horrid  glee,  their  orgies  hold  therein ; 
Like  the  poor  heart,  once  swept  and  garnished  fair, 
Only  for  demons  to  inhabit  there. 
It  is  a  state  that  pleases  Satan  well, 
Where  holiness  once  dwelt,  himself  to  dwell, 
And  brows  whereon  the  holy  sign  has  been, 
He  loves  to  stamp  with  his  broad  seal  of  sin. 
The  church  windows  are  illumined  from  within,  and  the  tones  of 
an  organ  blend  with  sounds  of  revelry.     The  storm  increases. 

DAN. 

O  Sir  !     What  will  become  o'  me,  dis  night  ? 
Less  go  fum  here,  or  I  shell  die  wid  fright ! 


FANTASMA.  57 

HERMIT. 

What,  have  you  been  so  brave,  to  falter  now  ? 
Remember,  nothing  can  the  truth  o'erthrow, 
And  evil,  bravely  faced,  from  goodness  flies. 
Demons  love  not  to  meet  an  angel's  eyes, 
Nor  strive  successfully  with  prayerful  men, 
Armed  in  true  meekness.     Let  us  enter,  then, 
And,  for  the  event,  have  neither  fear  nor  care ; 
For  nothing  is  so  strong  as  faith  and  prayer. 

\They  entet  the  church. 


SCENE  III.  Interior  of  the  church,  brilliantly  illuminated.  A 
black  Cloud  fills  the  pulpit ;  an  impish  Spirit  presides  at  the 
organ.  Wine,  etc.,  on  the  communion-table,  at  each  side  of 
which  stands  a  beautiful  dark  Spirit,  in  flame-colored  robes  ; 
the  one  crowned  with  grapes,  and  holding  a  jeweled  goblet, 
the  other  having  a  golden  crown,  and  bearing  a  horn-of 
plenty.  BEAUCLERC,  WITCHES,  WIZARDS,  etc.,  LUCIA, 
partially  unveiled,  seated  in  a  chair  before  the  chancel. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Now,  first  of  all,  join  we  in  that  wild  chant 
To  the  dread  master  whom  we  all  adore. 

CHANT. 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  Spirit  of  Fire  ! 

Spirit  of  Might,  whom  we  dread  and  adore ! 


58  FANTASMA. 

Hail  to  thee,  Chief,  whom  the  nations  admire ! 
Ruler  of  Earth,  in  thy  pride  and  thy  power  ! 

BEAUCLERC. 

And,  now,  pour  out — pour  out  the  wine  of  youth, 
That  wrinkled  age  may  drop  her  withered  mask, 
And  youth  herself  beam  brighter  than  before  ! 
Drink,  and  be  young  !     Joy  crowns  the  locks  of  youth  ! 
The  grape-crowned  SPIRIT  pours   out  wine  ;  they  crowd  to  the 

altar  and  drink  riotously. 

And  thou,  bright  Lucia,  needing  not  this  wine 
To  give  thee  youth  or  make  thee  beautiful, 
Yet,  drink  !     For  then  wilt  thou  possess  a  power 

The  youngest  and  the  fairest  cannot  wield. 

\She  drinks. 
Come,  let  the  organ  peal  in  all  its  power ! 

Lucia,  arise  !     I  take  thee  by  the  hand — 
The  music  stops ;   the  lights  grow  dim  ;  disorder  and  confusion, 
What  now  ?     What  mean  you  ?     Now  the  cup  is  full 
And  at  the  lip,  why  must  I  lose  the  draught  ? 

Enter  HERMIT  and  DAN. 

Lucia,  draw  close  your  veil. — What  do  you  here, 
Unhappy  dotard  ?     Would  you  seek  your  death  ? 

HERMIT. 
I  seek  to  free  the  soul  thou  hast  enthralled ! 

LUCIA. 

Where  am  I  ?     Oh,  the  dreadful  light  that  breaks 
Into  the  dim  recesses  of  my  soul ! 


FANTASMA.  59 

BEAUCLERC. 

I  thought  them  hadst  been  sheltered  from  all  harm, 
And  from  harm-doing,  in  the  arms  of  sleep. 

HERMIT. 

Thy  spells  have  failed  thee,  wizard !     Heaven  is  yet 
Too  strong  to  crumble  at  thy  weak  command. 
Why  dost  thou  stand  amazed  ?     Call  up  thy  fiends, 
And  bid  them  bear  the  hermit  from  thy  sight ; 
Or,  speak  to  these,  your  instruments  and  slaves, 
And  bid  them  tear  the  old  man  limb  from  limb. 
What,  pale  and  silent,  still?     Then /command : 
Deliver  up  to  me  the  stolen  maid  ! 

BEAUCLERC. 
I  shall  obey  you  !     Lucia,  lift  the  veil ! 

LUCIA. 

No !     I  am  not  the  mindless  thing  I  was 
Before  you  gave  to  me  your  sorcerer's  wine, 
And  when  I  heard  the  voice  of  this  good  man 
My  soul  awakened,  or  returned  to  me. — 
Most  reverend  father,  should  I  lift  this  veil, 
Whoever  looked  upon  my  face  would  die, 
Even  he  who  has  enchanted  me.     Too  late — 
Too  late,  I  fear,  you  come  to  rescue  me ; 
A  moment  sooner  had  been  well,  indeed, 
Before  I  drank  the  dark  magician's  wine. 
And  yet,  your  coming  broke  the  evil  rite; 


60  FANTASMA. 

A  moment  later,  and  a  mightier  spell 
Had  chained  my  soul  forever.     As  it  is, 
I  dare  not  lift  this  veil,  lest  you  should  die ! 

BEAUCLERC,  (to  his  rabble  of  witches ,  etc.} 
Disperse  !     Your  presence  here  endangers  you, 
And  helps  me  not.     Leave  me  to  deal  with  him. 

[  Witches  and  Wizards  fly  confusedly. 

HERMIT. 

Since  even  you  dare  not  behold  her  face, 
Why  not  restore  her  to  her  former  state  ? 
'Tis  but  a  fiend  who  for  the  love  of  sin, 
Does  wickedness ;  man  sins  for  fancied  gain. 
Since  you  are  man,  I  dare  appeal  to  you, 
To  reason,  to  the  conscious  soul  within — 
Persist  not  in  this  useless  wickedness, 
Cruel  to  her  and  profitless  to  you. 

BEAUCLERC. 

When  once  the  fitting  time  arrives  again 
I  can  complete  the  spell  I  have  begun. 
Meantime,  know  this  :     Not  even  /have  power 
To  break  the  enchantment  wherewith  she  is  bound. 
To  raise  that  veil,  in  truth,  would  snap  the  charm, 
But  whosoever  lifts  the  veil  must  die ; 
Unless  a  man  could  raise  it,  pure  of  heart, 
And  brave  as  pure,  and  gentle  as  courageous. 
But  where  in  all  the  world,  is  such  a  man  ? 


FANTASMA.  61 

Hermit !     I  claim  the  maiden  as  my  own ! 

Let  me  complete  the  spell  I  have  begun, 

And  I  restore  her  to  her  wonted  self. 

Old  man  !     I  will  submit  myself  to  thee, 

Will  burn  my  parchments,  break  my  magic  rod, 

Do  anything,  be  anything  you  will, 

If  only  you  allow  my  will  in  this  ! 

So  shall  you  save  two  souls  instead  of  one.  • 

HERMIT. 

Men  oft  do  evil,  hoping  good  will  come, 
But  all  such  hopes  are  vain.     I  will  myself 
Remove  the  fatal  veil  that  hides  her  face. 
I  am  old,  and  stand  already  by  my  grave ; 
Death  has  for  me  no  terrors ;  and  far  less 
If  I,  in  dying,  save  so  bright  a  life. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Hold  !     Hold  !     We  may  not  take  your  life,  old  man  ! 
A  stronger  Power  forbids  me  (as  I  wished) 
To  slay  you  by  the  lifting  of  the  veil. 

HERMIT. 
This  is  a  pretext.     I  will  raise — 

A  soft  clear  VOICE  from  the  cloud. 

Forbear ! 

\_All  stand  silent. 

BEAUCLERC,  (in  a  lower  tone}. 

Well  may  you  pale  !      We  seldom  hear  that  Voice  ! — 
Nor  is  the  gift  of  your  own  life,  old  man, 


62  FANTASMA. 

Sufficient  to  atone  this  maiden's  sin ; 

For,  know,  it  was  her  own  sin  that  betrayed 

And  placed  her  as  a  captive  in  my  power— 

The  sin  of  pride  in  her  own  purity  ; 

And  she  forgot  to  pray  before  she  slept. 

We  know,  as  well  as  saints,  the  power  of  prayer  ! 

LUCIA. 

Alas !     I  own  and  I  repent  my  sin, 
But  yet,  good  father,  I  do  not  despair, 
Nor  would  I  take  the  offered  sacrifice, 
Your  life  for  mine.     It  were  too  high  a  price ; 
And  I  will  trust  myself  to  faith  and  prayer. 

HERMIT. 

But  wherefore,  if  I  give  my  life  for  hers, 
Would  not  the  act  suffice  to  set  her  free  ? 

BEAUCLERC. 

Snow-pure  the  man  must  be  who  lifts  that  veil ! 
Yours  is  the  purity  of  pardoned  sin, 
And  wisdom  you  have  found  in  length  of  years  ; 
You  know  the  emptiness  of  earthly  joys, 
For  you  have  proved  them  all.     The  approach  of  death 
Would  end  your  penance ;  and  be  hailed  with  joy  ; 
It  were  no  sacrifice  for  thee  to  die. 
He  must  be  young,  who  dares  to  lift  that  veil, 
In  the  fresh  morning  of  his  rosy  youth, 


FANTASMA.  63 

When  life  is  rainbow-arched,  and  doubly  dear. 

Lucia  must  pay,  too,  of  her  own  free  will, 

Part  of  her  ransom — 'tis  a  costly  one  ! — 

Thou  brightest  Lucia  ! 

Strive  not  with  fate.     If  thou,  of  thy  free  mind, 

Wouldst  own  allegiance  to  the  Power  I  serve, 

Thou  shouldst  be  queen  and  dominate  the  world ! 

LUCIA. 

Too  oft  I've  harkened  to  that  voice  of  thine, 
Thou  false  and  cruel  as  the  subtle  snake ! 
Tell  me,  what  is  the  price  that  I  must  pay, 
And  I  will  pay  it.     I  have  gifts,  thou  knowest, 
That  give  me  power  o'er  much  of  earth  ;  her  riches, 
Her  beauty,  or  what  else  thou  most  desirest ; 
Her  gentler  spirits  will  yield  all  to  thee. 

VOICE  from  the  cloud. 
That  which  is  hardest  for  thee  to  give, 
What  costs  thee  most  to  yield,  will  I  receive. 

LUCIA. 
I  will  pile  the  red  gold,  a  glittering  heap, 

On  the  sacred  altar  stone  ; 

I  will  seek  the  pure  pearl  from  the  watery  deep, 
Bright  gems  from  the  vale  where  the  hot  winds  sleep — 

Will  these  for  my  sin  atone  ? 


64  FANTASMA. 

VOICE. 

Not  this — not  this  will  pay  the  price, 
All  the  riches  of  earth  in  sacrifice. 

LUCIA. 

I  will  gather  the  lovliest  flowers  of  spring 

That  fairy  bowers  display  ; 

I  will  seek  them  at  dawn,  ere  the  rude  winds  fling 
The  dew  from  their  opening  cups.     I  will  bring 
The  sweetest  and  best  of  each  blossoming  thing, 

Vine-wreath  or  flowery  spray  ! 

VOICE. 

Not  this!     Not  this!     'Twill  not  suffice, 
All  the  beauty  of  earth  in  sacrifice. 

LUCIA. 
Rich  music,  in  one  melting  strain 

Shall  all  sweet  sounds  combine, 
From  the  foaming  cataract's  wild  refrain, 
To  the  tinkling  bells  of  the  silver  rain — 
From  the  breeze  that  sighs  through  rustling  cane 
And  lisping  reeds  that  sigh  again, 
To  the  wind-harp  in  the  pine  ! 

% 

VOICE. 

Not  this — not  this  will  pay  the  price 
That  sets  the  captive  free ; 


FANTASMA.  65 

Though  thou  bring  all  the  wealth  in  earth  that  lies, 
All  the  beauty  of  new-found  Paradise, 
And  mingle  the  music  of  earth  and  of  skies, 
Not  music,  nor  beauty,  nor  wealth  would  suffice 
To  lift  that  veil  for  thee ! 

HERMIT. 

Despair  not  yet,  sweet  maid  !     Nor  deem  one  sin, 
The  single  flaw  within  a  priceless  gem, 
Will  render  thee  the  thrall  of  this  dark  Power. 
Give  up  all  pride  ;  that  is  the  sacrifice  ! 
And,  meekly  bending  to  the  will  of  heaven, 
Now  and  forever  learn  the  strength  of  patience ; 
Patient  endurance  is  the  crown  of  strength  ! 

BEAUCLERC. 

Hermit,  this  night  is  ours !     Though  thou  hast  stood, 
With  courage  I  could  almost  reverence, 
In  the  dark  shadow  of  Tremendous  Might, 
Yet,  yield  to  destiny !     Thine  hour  is  past, 
And  ours,  full-armed  in  strength,  is  here.     Old  man, 
I  would  not  injure  thee  ;  thou  art  my  foe, 
As  all  the  slaves  of  heaven ;  yet.  brave  of  heart, 
I  would  not  touch  thee  roughly.     Yield  thou  must, 
Nor  look  upon  our  sacred  mysteries. 
Sleep,  thou,  in  trance ;  unharmed,  unharming. 

VOICE  (soft  and  low). 
Sleep ! 


66  FANTASMA. 

HERMIT. 

I  will  not  sleep  !     My  brain — mine  eyes  are  heavy, 
Yet  I  will  still  resist — my  senses  reel — 

The  HERMIT  sinks  down  in  a  trance;  SPIRITS  rise  with  him 
and  disappear. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Yet  there  is  one  within  this  wood  to-night 
Whom  I  fear  most  of  all ;  the  beardless  youth ; 
Before  him  I  still  tremble  and  shrink  back, 
As  he  had  some  strange  power  that  conquers  mine. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Wait,  thou,  in  silence !     Lo,  the  Ruling  One 
Takes  thy  veiled  captive  in  the  awful  cloud. 

LUCIA. 

O  help  me — save !     The  trial  is  too  sharp ! 
The  Cloud  envelopes  LUCIA,  and  immediately  disappears. 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

The  maid — a  prize  worth  all  the  toil  of  capture 
To  thee  and  us — may  yet  be  lost  to  thee, 
And  to  our  Master,  through  a  fault  of  thine. 
Thou  didst  far  underrate  Fantasma's  power, 
And  thou  didst  shrink,  weakly,  from  thought  of  harming 
This  boy,  who  is  to  Lucia's  heart  so  dear. 
One  way  remains :     Try  all  thy  power  to  tempt, 
Aided  by  us,  young  Florian.     Snare  his  soul, 
And  share  with  him  thy  earthly  power  and  glory. 


FANTASMA.  67 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

If  our  enticements  fail  with  Florian, 
Lucia  is  lost  to  us. 

BEAUCLERC. 
No !     If  we  "fail, 

Fantasma  shall  complete  what  we  begin, 
And  aid  our  purpose  in  her  own  despite  ! 
Our  Master  has  his  time  of  power  with  her, 
As  with  all  things  of  earth,  however  pure ; 
And  she  already  trembles  at  the  thought 
Of  possible  harm  befalling  Florian ; 
For  she  has  loved  the  poet  from  his  youth, 
And,  when  I  sought  her,  fled  from  me  to  him. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

He  comes  !     And  shielded  by  Fantasma's  power. 
Deal  thou  with  him,  and  we  will  cope  with  her, 
Fairest  and  strongest  of  the  earth-born  powers. 
Enter  FLORIAN,  FANTASMA  and  ROSEMARY. 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

• 

Fair  sister,  welcome  ! 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 
We  have  waited  long. 

FANTASMA. 

Ye  call  me  sister  ?     Ye,  unknowing  ought 
Of  kindred  or  of  love  ?     Demons  ye  are, 


68  FANTASMA. 

As  loveless  as  your  elemental  fires, 

And  hideous  as  the  chaos  whence  ye  sprung, 

Though  shining  now  in  shapes  of  borrowed  beauty. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Whatever  we  may  be,  thou  knowest  well 
Our  power,  which  now  we  choose  to  set  apart, 
O  bright-browed  phantom  !  to  confer  with  thee. 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

The  maid  thou  seekest  is  not  now  with  us ; 
But  we  will  freely  tell,  and  show  thee,  too, 
Where  she  now  is,  and  how  she  may  be  won. 
Being  thyself  a  spirit,  thou  shouldst  know 
It  sometimes  suits  a  demon  to  speak  truth 
For  his  own  purpose.     Harken  thou  to  us  ! 

FANTASMA  slowly  approaches  ;  they  confer  apart. 

FLORIAN. 
Why  dost  thou  smile  on  me,  with  open  brow  ? 

There  can  be  only  strife  between  us  two. 

* 

BEAUCLERC. 

Nay,  Florian  !     We  both  erred — and  I  the  most, 
Being  elder,  and,  it  may  be,  better  versed 
In  things  it  much  imports  us  both  to  know  ; 
We  erred,  I  say,  in  choosing  enmity 
When  friendship  better  aids  our  purposes, 
Both  thine  and  mine.     Thou  art  beneath  a  spell, 


FANTASMA.  69 

Seeking,  thou  neither  knowest  whom  nor  what, 
Because  thy  queen  Fantasma  wills  it  so. 
She  whom  thou  seekest,  thou  shalt  find  this  night; 
Nay,  I  myself  will  lead  thee  to  her  presence, 
If  thou  wilt  call  me  friend  and  clasp  my  hand. 

FLORIAN. 

Sooner  than  clasp  thy  hand,  incarnate  falsehood  ! 
I  would — 

BEAUCLERC. 

Strike  off  thine  own  clean  hand,  no  doubt ! 
But  spare  invective,  useless  as  discourteous. 
Thinkest  thou  the  darkness  better  loves  the  light 
Than  light  loves  darkness?     Never  think  it,  Florian  ! 
I  am  thy  natural  foe,  as  thou  art  mine  ; 
Thy  presence  is  not  soothing  to  my  soul ! 
Yet  I  seek  peace,  and  give  thee  courteous  words. 
The  angels  do  not  rail  upon  the  demons ; 
Though  thou  may'st  teach  the  angels  purity, 
A  sorcerer  yet  excels  thee  in  good  manners. 

FLORIAN. 

Thy  taunt  is  just.     I  will  not  rail  on  thee, 
But  hear  with  patience  all  thou  hast  to  say ; 
Only,  bear  this  in  mind  : — Or  soon,  or  late, 
The  maid  thou  hast  enthralled  will  I  set  free. 

BEAUCLERC. 
But  how,  if  I  should  yield  her  to  thy  hand  ? 


jo  F'ANTASMA. 

FLORIAN. 
And  wilt  thou  ? 

BEAUCLERC. 
On  conditions. 

FLORIAN. 

Ah  !     I  thought 
There  was  some  deeper  purpose.     We  waste  time  ! 

BEAUCLERC. 
You  promised  to  hear  all  I  had  to  say. 

FLORIAN. 
Speak,  then,  but  briefly;  for  my  patience  wears. 

BEAUCLERC. 

I  love  this  maiden  as  thou  canst  not  love ; 
Thou  who  art  all  unconscious  of  her  name. 
Speak  not!  I  know  the  fairy-queen's  commands 
That  thou  pursue  this  quest  for  virtue  merely, 
With  faith  and  patience,  seeking  not  to  know 
For  whom  thou  laborest,  till  success  is  thine ; 
But,  hear  me !     All  my  spirit  knows  of  love, 
And  all  it  hopes  of  happiness  or  peace, 
Is  wound  about  this  girl.     I  love  her,  Florian ! 
I  seek  her  not  because  she  brings  me  power — 
At  least,  not  all  for  that.     Her  slender  hand 
Holds  the  fine,  golden  chain  that  links  my  soul 
To  its  last  hope  of  virtue  :  snap  that  chain, 
You  break  my  last,  frail,  trembling  hold  on  heaven  ! 


FA  N  TASMA. 

But  what  is  this  to  thee,  who  knowest  not  sin, 
Nor  its  unfailing  shadow,  wretchedness  ? 
He  only  who  has  sinned  can  pity  sin ; 
But  thou  art  white  as  snow,  and  far  more  cold. 

FLORIAN. 

Who  has  not  sinned  of  Adam's  ruined  race  ? 
I  have  not  fallen  by  mine  own  act  so  low 
As  thou,  because  I  have  been  fenced  from  ill. 
Think'st  thou  I  deem  myself  thy  better  ?  No ! 
Thou  mayest  re-trim  the  lamp  of  thy  strong  soul, 
Whose  powerful  light  would  dull  my  feeble  ray. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Kind  are  thy  words,  and  I  would  fain  believe 
Thy  soul  as  kind.     Do  not  reject  my  prayer  ! 
I  would  repent — but  ah  !  thou  dost  not  know 
How  bitter  is  the  herb  that's  called  repentance  ! 
Like  a  sick,  froward  child,  the  soul  rejects 
The  unpalatable  medicine.     One  hope 
Is  mine,  and  only  one  :  it  lies  in  her, 
The  captive  maid,  for  whom  we  are  at  strife. 
What  is  it  you  fear  for  her?     Would  I  bring  harm 
On  her  I  worship  ?     The  least  ring  of  hair 
That  lies  like  light  upon  her  innocent  brow, 
Is  more  to  me  than — wherefore  do  I  speak, 
Baring  my  soul  before  unfriendly  eyes  ? 
I  have  sinned ;  I  suffer ;  better  fate  be  thine, 
Who  still  art  young,  and  pure  as  once  I  was. 


FANTASMA. 

FLORIAN. 
Indeed,  with  all  my  soul  I  pity  thee ! 

BEAUCLERC. 

Behold !  the  fairy  queen  has  ceased  to  speak 
With  her  less  favored  sisters;  such  they  are, 
Although  rejected  by  Fantasma's  pride. 

FANTASMA. 

Florian  !     The  trial  is  before  thee  now ; 
I  may  not,  and  I  cannot,  aid  thee  more. 
The  conflict  of  a  soul  is  all  its  own. 
Yet,  I  can  warn  thee :  oh,  be  strong  and  brave, 
Watchful  and  prayerful !  all  depends  on  thee. 
I  now  depart  to  seek  the  captive  maid, 
To  see  with  mine  own  eyes  if  true  or  false 
Is  the  unwelcome  tale  these  spirits  tell. 
I  will  return  with  speed :  remain  thou  he.re, 
Till  my  return.     I  leave  thee  not  unguarded, 
Though  in  the  conflict  thou  must  be  alone. 

[She  vanishes. 

BEAUCLERC. 

The  bright-browed  fairy-queen  is  cold  and  pure, 
Pitiless  as  some  human  souls  have  been, 
In  the  clear  diamond  of  whose  purity 
There  are  no  flaws  of  tenderness ;  but  see, 
These  spirits,  dark,  indeed,  yet  beautiful, 
And  with  such  gentleness  of  lip  and  brow  ! 
These  are  no  demons,   Florian  ! 


FANTASMA.  73 

FLORIAN. 

What  are  they  ? 

They  cannot  be  good  angels,  though  their  beauty 
Is  more  than  mortal ;  dark  and  starry  eyes 
That  seem  so  full  of  tenderness  !  they  smile, 
But  sorrow  looks  from  those  dark,  liquid  depths. 
What  are  they? 

BEAUCLERC. 

Merely  shadows  of  earth's  beauty, 
Fantasma's  sisters,  though  she  owns  them  not, 
Because  she  dwells  in  light,  and  they  in  shade. — 
Florian,  wert  thou  my  friend,  and  wouldst  consent 
That  I  espouse  this  maiden — earth  sees  not 
Nor  ever  saw,  the  monarch  thou  shouldst  be ; 
Such  sovereignty,  such  splendor,  such  renown, 
Not  Solomon  the  matchless  ever  knew ! 

FLORIAN. 

Why  dost  thou  proffer  me  such  splendid  gifts, 
Thyself  remaining  poor  and  all  unknown? 

BEAUCLERC. 

Riches  are  mine,  would  I  put  forth  my  hand ; 
But,  heretofore,  I  have  sinned  royally, 
Which  he  can  never  do,  who  sins  for  gain. 
I  have  not  cared  for  gold.     Thou  doubtest  this  ? 
Behold,  the  senseless  idol  of  the  world ! 
The  gold-croivned  Spirit  shakes  from  her  Cornucopia  a  shower  of 

gold  and  gems. 


FANTASMA. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 
Yes  !•   Thou  shalt  be  king,  if  thou  hast  but  the  will, 

And  gifted  more  richly  than  Midas  of  old. 
The  spirit  of  fortune  shall  wait  on  thee  still, 
Thy  roses  shall  diamonds  for  dew-drops  distill, 

And  the  sand  in  thy  foot-print  shall  glitter  with  gold ! 

FLORIAN. 

Have  I,  then,  shown  so  poor  and  mean  a  mind, 
You  tempt  me  with  the  riches  you  despise  ? 
1  know  that  life  has  better  gifts  than  gold. 

BEAUCLERC. 
Yet  is  unbounded  wealth  a  kingly  gift. 

FLORIAN. 
I  ask  not  this,  nor  any  gift,  of  thee. 

BEAUCLERC. 

True;  but  I  still  may  proffer;  thou  refuse, 
Or  take,  as  pleases  thee.     Life  holds,  indeed, 
Gifts  better,  far,   than  gold ;  the  chief  of  which 
Is  something  often  sought,  but  never  found, 
Or  lost  as  soon  as  found — immortal  youth  ! 

FLORIAN. 

I  as  no  other  immortality 
Than  that  which  heaven  bestows  on  every  man. 


FANTASMA.  75 

BEAUCLERC. 

But  see  !     Arcania  pours  for  thee  the  wine 
That  warmed  heroic  hearts  of  olden  time, 
And  mingled  subtly  with  the  circling  blood, 
Till  they  became  as  gods,  strong  to  endure 
And  to  enjoy,  the  evil  and  the  good ; 
Splendid  in  fadeless,  beautiful,  bright  youth, 
Their  lives  on-stretching  through  such  length  of  days 
As  makes  an  earthly  immortality. 
Look  on  the  sparkling  liquid  as  it  flows ! 
Now,  a  translucent  stream  of  ruddy  gold  ; 
Again,  it  gives  a  crimson  glow,  like  blood 
Restless  with  the  quick  principle  of  life; 
Gleaming  with  changing  hues  and  rainbow  lights, 
Like  a  clear  lake  beneath  a  sunset  sky. 
Florian  ! 

There's  not  the  smallest  bubble  shining  there 
In  opal  beauty,  but  contains  some  gift 
Of  strength  or  glory  more  than  monarchs  know. 
Drink !     And  thy  veins  receive  undying  youth, 
And  health,  and  beauty !     But  these  are  not  much. 
Drink !     And  thy  mind  shall  bask  in  heavenly  light, 
Thy  soul  shall  float  on  tideless  seas  of  bliss, 
And  all  thy  dreams  be  sweet  realities. 
This,  also,  is  not  much ;  the  hopes  of  youth, 
Though  realized,  are  little  worth.     But  drink ! 
And  thou  shalt  reign  supreme  o'er  thine  own  self, 
That  triple  self  of  body,  mind  and  soul ; 


76  FANTASMA. 

Life's  pangs  and  fears  shall  crouch  like  lions  tamed ; 
Her  pleasures  strew  thy  conquering  way  with  flowers ; 
And  thou,  whose  frank  and  tender  heart  now  bleeds 
At  every  coarse  or  cruel  touch,  shalt  stand 
In  thine  own  calm  and  self-sufficing  strength, 
And  in  thy  soul-serenity,  a  god ! 

FLORIAN. 

Thou  think'st  to  tempt  me,  and  dost  but  arouse 
My  pity  for  thyself,  unhappy  man  ! 
Dost  thou  believe  all  happiness  must  lie 
In  sovereignty  ?     I  envy  not  that  man 
Who  thinks  it  degradation  to  obey ; 
Obedience  is  the  soul's  necessity. 
Whatever  we  love  deeply,  that  we  place 
Far,  far  above  ourselves.     The  soul's  delight 
Is,  to  forget  or  sacrifice  to  love 
All  thoughts  of  self;  it  is  the  lover's  bliss 
To  throne  his  lady  and  to  worship  her; 
Friend  worships  friend  with  self- regardless  love  ; 
And  ah  !     what  bliss  is  theirs  who  kneel  to  heaven 
In  the  obedience  born  of  trusting  love  ! 
This,  thou  hast  never  known.     In  thy  mad  search 
After  a  non-existent  liberty, 

Thou  gladly  wouldst  dethrone  the  King  of  Heaven. 
And  thou  wouldst  reign  ?     Wouldst  be  a  god  ?     Supreme 
Must  be  the  love  of  self  in  thy  dark  soul ! 


FANTASMA.  77 

BEAUCLERC. 

I've  wasted  time  in  parley  with  a  slave 
Who  hugs  his  chain  and  worships  him  who  smites. 
May'st  thou  with  cords  of  steel  be  lashed  to  death, 
Thou  servile  foe  of  light  and  liberty  ! 
Re-enter  FANTASMA. 

FLORIAN. 

Never  wert  thou  so  welcome !     Let  us  go, 
I  pray  thee,  from  this  desecrated  place; 
And  thou  wilt  guide  me  to  this  hapless  maid. 

FANTASMA. 
Yes,  come !     This  is  no  place  for  thee  or  me. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Nay,  Virtue  most  superlative  !     Fly  not. 
Ye  have  disordered  and  dispersed  our  circle, 
And  so  we  leave  to  Virtue's  cleansing  power 
The  meeting-place  you  grudge  to  us.     Adieu, 
Until  we  meet  again,  when  ye  shall  fly  !  {Exit. 

Spirits  vanish,  with  mocking  laughter,  which  is  echoed  by  invisi 
ble  beings  filling  the  Church. 

FLORIAN. 

O  horrible  !     The  air  is  full  of  evil ! 
Fantasma,  let  us  go — but,  who  is  this, 
Lying  in  trance  or  slumber  so  profound  ? 
It  is  my  servant,  Dan  !     Harmless  and  kind, 


78  FANTASMA. 

And  helpless  in  his  ignorance,  they  have  not — 
Surely,  they  have  not  injured  him  ? 

FANTASMA. 

Fear  not ! 

'Tis  but  a  tranced  slumber  that  enfolds  him  ; 
Rosemary  shall  awake  and  guide  him  hence. 
But,  Florian,  do  not  call  him  ignorant ! 
Wisdom  lies  oftener  in  the  heart  than  head, 
And  Dan  has  done  more  for  the  captive  maid 
Than  either  you  or  I ;  he  brought  the  Hermit 
Before  the  binding  spell  was  made  complete. 
We  came  too  late  !     Had  you  but  sought  my  bower 
When  first  you  met  Rosemary,  we  had  saved 
The  helpless  and  imprisoned  one  ;  but  now  — 

FLORIAN. 

Ah,  fairy-queen,  say  not,  it  is  too  late! 
Nothing  can  be  too  late  that  heaven  approves. 

FANTASMA. 

'Tis  true,  and  yet — .   Come,  then ;  thou  shalt  know  all ! 
Rosemary,  take  the  servant  to  your  care, 
And  bear  him  to  the  Hermit  of  the  Mill, 
Whom  those  dark  spirits  did  not  dare  to  harm  : 
They  merely  bore  him  to  his  hermitage, 
Sleeping  a  pleasant  sleep  beneath  a  spell. 

FLORIAN. 
And  will  poor  Dan  be  safe  ? 


FANTASMA.  79 

F ANT ASM A. 

As  infancy 

Beneath  the  mother's  eye.     Have  thou  no  fear ! 
From  this  hour  till  the  dawn,  my  subjects  rule 
This  haunted  grove,  and  drive  the  witches  hence. 
Rosemary,  awake  and  guard  him  with  due  care  ! 
Come,  Florian !  there  is  much  for  thee  to  hear ! 

\Exeunt  FANTASMA  and  FLORIAN. 

ROSEMARY. 

Rise,  thou,  who  in  thy  ignorance  art  wise, 
And  strong  in  weakness.       I  will  lead  thee  hence 
To  safety ;  and  this  night  shalt  thou  know  joy 
Such  as  thy  dumb  soul  never  felt  before. 
Nay,  do  not  speak !     This  wand  upon  thy  lips 
Insures  thy  silence.     Let  us  leave  this  place ! 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.      The  Fairy  Glen. 
Enter  FANTASMA  and  FLORIAN. 

FANTASMA. 
Thou  shalt  know  all. 

There  is  a  gloomy  cave 
Deep  hidden  in  the  center  of  the   earth, 
Controlled  by  spirits  evil  past  all  thought — 
A  cave  that  never  knew  the  light  of  day, 
Nor  heard  the  echo  of  a  human  voice. 


8o  •  FANTASMA. 

Within  this  dreadful  place,  the  captive  maid 

Is  held,  still  shrouded  in  the  fatal  veil, 

And  doubly  shrouded  in  a  cloud  of  darkness. 

I  may  not  tell  thee  what  that  cloud  contains ! 

Enough,  that,  if  thou  rashly  enterest  there 

Thou  diest — unless  unshaken  courage  be 

Thy  sword,  and  spotless  purity  thy  shield. 

Speak — hast  thou  courage  such  as  martyrs  know, 

And  is  thy  soul  pure  as  an  angel's  prayer  ? 

FLORIAN. 

I  think,  to  save  another  I  could  die ; 
For  purity,  no  soul  is  free  of  sin. 
I  dare  not  venture  in  my  own  poor  strength : 
My  weapons  must  be  courage,  faith  and  prayer. 

FANTASMA. 

Thou  knowest  not  the  dreadful  power  of  Sin ; 
Thou  knowest  not  with  whom  thy  soul  must  strive ! 

FLORIAN. 
What  will  betide  the  maiden  if  I  fail  ? 

FANTASMA. 

If  thou  once  raise  that  veil,  though  thou  shouldst  die, 
The  maid  is  free,  and  safe  forevermore. 

FLORIAN. 
Then  I  will  venture !     O  may  I  but  live 


FANTASMA.  81 

To  lift  that  veil  and  set  the  captive  free ; 
Though  in  the  self-same  moment  I  should  die ! 

FANTASMA. 
Yet  stay !     There's  time  enough — and  though  thou 

wearest 

Thy  life  so  lightly,   it  is  dear  to  me  ! 
And,  having  shown  thee  what  thou  hast  to  fear, 
Thou  shalt  behold  a  part  of  all  thou  losest 
By  throwing  life  away  in  this  wild  quest. 

A  magic  sea  lies  hidden  in  this  wood, 

Invisible  to  dull  and  earthly  sight : 
On  that  sweet  shore  no  mortal  ever  stood, 

Nor  cast  a  shadow  on  those  waves  of  light. 

The  souls  of  those  I  love  have  wandered  there, 
Flying  from  sordid  care,  or  grief,  or  shame; 

But  gross  mortality  in  that  fine  air 

Would  perish,  as  at  touch  of  burning  flame. 

And,  on  the  bosom  of  that  fairy  sea, 

An  island  of  unfading  beauty  lies; 
There  the  enamored  winds  move  languidly 

O'er  blooming  orange-groves  and  bowers  of  spice ; 

And  gorgeous  wreaths  of  crimson-blossomed  vines 
Go  winding  through  the  aromatic  woods  : 

The  golden  jasmine  and  the  grape  entwines, 
And  rich  pomegranates  blushing  red  as  blood. 


82  FANTASMA. 

And  everywhere,  amid  the  fragrant  green 
Of  orange-groves, — by  every  sweet  lagoon, 

In  soft  mimosa-shaded  vales,  are  seen 
Fairy  pavilions,  glittering  in  the  moon. 

There,  life  and  music  flow,  so  sweetly  blending, 
Time  falls  asleep  among  the  passion-flowers  : 

With  circling  grace,  in   dances  never-ending, 
On  silver  sandals  move  the  enchanted  hours. 

The  moon  is  larger  there,  the  stars  more  tender, 

For  on  this  isle  the  sunlight  never  beams  : — 
Thou  shalt  behold  this  land  in  all  its  splendor, 
Which  other  eyes  have  only  seen  in  dreams ! 
The  Cliff  opens,  in  the  background,  and  the  Fairy  Sea  appears . 
fairy  Isles  in  the  distance. 

FLORIAN. 

Enchanting  scene  !     O  isles  divinely  fair ! 
The  soul  of  beauty  must  in  truth  lie  there ! 
Such  must  the  unsullied  Eden-isles  have  been, 
Before  the  shadow  fell  of  death  or  sin. 
Would  that  I  might  forever  dwell  with  thee 
In  those  fair  isles  beyond  that  smiling  sea  ! 

FANTASMA. 

Then  come,  beloved,  with  me! 
In  yon  soft  isles,  where  shining  palaces 
Gleam  through  green  groves  of  golden-fruited  trees, 
Where  the  light  winds  the  blossomed  roses  shake, 


FANTASMA.  83 

And  white  star-jessamine,  until  they  make 
A  summer  snow-storm,  drifting  flake  by  flake 

Over  the  perfumed  grasses  of  the  lea; 

There,  oh !  there  awaiteth  thee 
More  bliss  than  thou  canst  take  ! 

FLORIAN. 

And  shall  I,  then,  forsake  this  hapless  maid, 
For  whom  at  first  thou  didst  bespeak  my  aid  ? 

And  she  must  perish  there, 
If  I  forsake  her  now,  in  the  dark  shade 

Of  danger  and  despair. 

FANTASMA. 
Should  /  not  save  her,  if  she  could  be  saved  ? 

Already,  I  have  braved 
Dangers  thou  knowest  not ;  and  shall  I  see 
Thee,  also,  perish  ?     Nay,  it  must  not  be  ! 
Cast  the  sad  memory  from  thy  pensive  mind. — 

Behold,  the  fairy  kind, 

Summoned  to  meet  thee  here,  are  gaily  springing 
From  field  and  forest ;  hear  their  silver  singing  ! 
Sweet  sounds  of   rustling  leaves,   chirping  birds,    and  rippling 
water.      The  WOOD-SPIRITS  appear. 

FLORIAN. 

O  beautiful !  O  wondrous  !  What  are  these 
That  drop  like  falling  nuts  from  shaken  trees, 
Or  like  the  painted  leaves  that  Autumn  showers 


84  FANTASMA. 

To  make  amends  for  the  lost  summer  flowers  ! 
Most  small  and  dainty  figures,  light  of  wing, 
From  tree,  and  shrub,  and  tufted  grass  they  spring ! 
And  not  a  flower  so  small  but  there  doth  dwell 
A  tiny  fay  to  guard  its  fragrant  cell ! 
And  other,  larger  forms — how  bright  they  come, 
Emerging  from  the  green  wood's  bowery  gloom ; 
Taller  are  they  ;  more  human  ;  more  like  tJiee! 
With  many-colored  garments,  tresses  free, 
And  garlanded  with  flowers  of  richest  dyes ; 
Winged,  some  like  birds,  and  some  like  butterflies ; 
Some  crowned  with  laurel  and  with  ivy-shoots, 
And  nodding  heads  of  wheat ;  some  bearing  fruits, 
And  others,  still,  with  fine  and  fairy  flutes, 
Fashione'd  from  reeds  and  stalks  of  hollow  cane. 
But,  hark,  how  sweetly  sing  the  blooming  train  ! 

SONG  OF  THE  WOOD-SPIRITS. 
O  come  to  us,  our  poet  and  our  king ! 

We  are  the  spirits  of  the  fields  and  woods  ; 

All  sunny  heights,  all  shady  solitudes, 
Are  ours,  and  ours  the  pleasures  they  may  bring. 

Are  not  the  spirits  of  the  woodlands  fair  ? 
Look  on  the  clustering  curls  of  our  rich  hair  ! 

All  lovely  tints  are  there, 

From  corn-silk  brightness  to  black-purple  luster 
Of  wreathing  wild-grape's  shadow-ripened  cluster ; 
From  the  green  moss  that  lines  a  woodland  spring, 


FANTASMA.  85 

To  the  grey  mosses  from  live-oaks  that  swing ; 

From  the  soft  waving  of  the  maiden-hair 
To  the  sweet  fringe-tree's  snowy  tasseling! 

Are  we  not  very  fair  ? 

{Echo.      Very  fair. 

We  vary  in  our  shape  as  in  our  size ; 

Look  in  our  smiling  eyes ! 

There  each  soft  color  lies, 
Of  fruit  or  floweret,  from  the  brilliant  blue 
Of  the  wild  iris  to  the  violet's  hue  ; 
From  chestnut  and  the  brown  cone  of  the  pine 
To  jetty  chinquapin  or  muscadine  ! 

Are  we  not  very  fair  ? 

The  eglantine 

Has  left  her  courtship  with  the  air  ; 
Has  left  the  coral  woodbine's  clasping  twine, 
And  on  our  tender  cheeks,  more  waxen-fair 
Than  the  rich  petals  of  magnolias  are, 

She  spreads  a  bloom  that  owes 
Its  pale  perfection  to  the  sweet  wild  rose. 

[Echo.      The  sweet  wild  rose  ! 

Yet,  merely  types  are  we, 
Though  beautiful  we  be, 
Of  beauty  and  of  bliss  awaiting  thee  ! 

[Echo.     Awaiting  t/ite  ! 


86  FANTASMA. 

FLORIAN. 

On  wings  like  humming-bird  in  sunlight  glancing; 
On  airy  feet,  retreating  and  advancing; 
Gliding,  circling,  from  the  earth  up-springing  ; 
Wheeling,  floating,  from  vine-garlands  swinging ; 
Lightly  embracing,  airily  chasing, 
With  linked  hands  in  circles  interlacing  ! 
Echo  prolongs  the  sounds  entrancing, 
Till  all  the  woody  glades  are  filled  with  music  and  with 

dancing  ! 

\The  WOOD-FAIRIES  vanish.     Law,  mellow  thunder ;  the  FIRE- 
SPRITES  appear,  with  flashes  of  light  preceding  them.~\ 

FLORIAN. 

Ah  !     What  are  those  bright  shapes  that  shining  glide 
From  yonder  cavern  in  the  mountain-side  ? 
More  bright,  but  not  more  lovely  than  the  fays 
Of  field  and  forest,  are  these  forms  of  grace, 
Clad  royally  in  robes  of  spangling  gold 
And  twinkling  silver,  every  gleaming  fold 
Crusted  with  richest  jewels  of  the  mine. 
On  those  bright  brows  what  starry  diamonds  shine  ! 
And  rainbow-tinted  fires,  in  lambent  play, 
Curl  round  the  auburn  locks  that  wildly  stray, 
And  dark,  resplendent  eyes  make  pale  the  glow 
Of  flames  and  jewels  shining  round  them  so  ! 


FANTASMA.  87 

FlRE-SPRITES. 

We  dwell  in  central  fires  and  hidden  caves ; 

Earth's  treasures  all  are  ours  ; 
Her  forces  are  our  captives  and  our  slaves, 

And  we  direct  her  powers. 

To  thee  shall  open  every  dark  recess ; 
Thou  shalt  our  strength  employ 
On  whom  thou  wilt,  to  blight  them  or  to  bless, 

To  make,  or  to  destroy. 

[  The  FIRE-SPRITES  vanish,     A  sound  of   Eolian   Harps ;  the 
CLOUD-FAYS    descend.  ] 

FLORIAN. 

Yet  more,  and  brighter  !     Like  a  shower  of  stars, 
Or  Eden-birds  escaped  the  golden  bars, 
The  bright-haired  spirits  of  the  clouds  and  sky, 
Borne  upon  starry  wings,  go  flashing  by ! 
Robed  as  in  clouds  of  silvery,  snowy  white, 
Or  veiled  in  melting  azure,  starry-bright 
With  lights  that  come  and  go;  while  changing  sheen 
Of  tender  rose  and  orange  tints  are  seen! 
Floating  above  each  head,  a  sparkling  tiar 
Hangs  like  a  hazy  ring  of  silver  fire, 
Wherein  bright  sparkles  come  and  go,  now  kindle,  now  expire  ! 

THE  SYLPHS. 
We  the  bright  spirits  are 
Of  fleecy  clouds  and  azure  skies, 


88  FANTASMA. 

Steeped  in  the  sunset's  gorgeous  dyes ; 

And  in  our  luminous  eyes 
We  hold  the  sweetness  of  the  evening  star—  - 
Of  all  clear  stars,  whose  tender  sheen 

Is  pensive  and  serene. 

And  yet,  we  are  not  given  to  sadness  wholly ; 
We  dwell  not  in  the  dreaming  cloudland  solely; 
We  have  the  splendid  smiles  of  dying  day  ; 
We  have  the  young  moon's  most  bewitching  ray ; 

And  unto  us  is  given 

The  happy  light  that  beams 

Into  a  poet's  dreams, 
And  the  still  joy  that  draws  the  soul  to  heaven. 

Ah,  Poet,  we  can  yield 

More  bliss  than  wood  or  field, 

Or  jeweled  cave,  or  central  fires, 

To  the  soul  whose  pure  desires 

Are  such  as  thine  must  be ; 

Not  even  the  powerful  sea 
Can  give  those  joys  serene  and  high  which  we  may  promise 

thee. 

[  The  CLOUD  FAYS  melt  into  a  silvery  mist,  and  vanish.  The 
sound  of  billows:  WATER-NYMPHS  and  SIRENS  arise  from 
the  Sea.  ] 

FLORIAN. 

Behold,  where,  rising  from  the  fairy  lake 
And  still  lagoon,  whose  smoothed  waters  break 


FANTASMA.  89 

In  dimpling  eddies  and  in  circles  wide, 

The  water-maidens  come  in  all  their  pride! 

The  bending  lilies  kiss  those  forms  that  bless 

The  clinging  wave  with  their  white  loveliness; 

Far-flowing  locks  of  crinkling  hair,  that  toss 

In  wavy  length,  like  tangled  river-moss, 

Veil  shining  shoulders,  and  the  snowy  charms 

Of  glistening  bosoms  and  of  rounded  arms, 

While  from  the  showery  tresses  lightly  fall 

Pearl-shining  drops,  with  tinklings  musical. 

Sea-weed,  and  pearj,  and  coral's  branching  stem, 

Prismatic  shells,  and  many  an  ocean  gem, 

Entwined  with  flowing  sprays  of  rosemary, 

Crown  them  with  wreaths  that  shine  so  radiantly, 

They  cast  on  rippling  lake  and  smooth  lagoon 

Circles  of  light,  like  haloes  round  the  moon. 

But,  richer  than  all  gems,  their  star-like  eyes 

Shine  with  a  siren's  subtle  witcheries, 

Changeful  as  hues  of  ocean,  and  as  bright ; 

Now,  soft  and  deeply  blue  as  lazulite  ; 

Now,  sparkling  with  full  joy,  and  crystalline 

As  the  green  glitter  of  aqua  marine. 

O  lucent  brows !     O  cheeks  whose  delicate  flush 

Is  clearer  than  the  sea-shell's  finest  blush  ! 

O  full,  sweet  lips!  whence  flows  the  song  that  swells 

Above  the  harps,  above  the  silver  shells ! 


90  FANTASMA. 

What  need  have  ye  of  harp  or  shell  ?      Those  liquid  tones 

express 
Music's  full  soul,    a  world  of  love,  and  worlds  of  happiness  ! 

THE  SEA-NYMPHS. 

We  pledge  thee  faith,  we  hail  thee  king! 
For  thee  our  golden  harps  shall  ring, 
For  thee  our  sweetest  songs  we  sing — 

For  thee,  for  only  thee  ! 
Our  shining  halls  are  gay  for  thee ; 
Our  fairy  barque  shall  stay  for  thee; 
We  smooth  the  star-lit  way  for  thee, 

Across  the  sparkling  sea  ! 

[Tfo  MERMAIDENS  disappear.     A  fairy  Boat  floats  across  the 
Sea  toward  FLORIAN.] 

FLORIAN. 

O  too  much  hast  thou  shown  me!    Tempt  no  more 
My  troubled  heart !     If  thou  hast  not  the  power 
To  move  me,  can  these  have,  though  fair  they  be  ? 
Fairer  and  brighter  than  aught  else  but  thee ! 
And  when  wert  thou  so  beautiful  as  now  ? 
A  soft,  sweet  radiance  lights  that  lovely  brow ; 
Thy  hair — how  shall  its  brightness  be  expressed  ? 
The  golden  flame  that  lights  an  oriole's  breast; 
Ripe  wheat,  tipped  goldenly  by  sunset's  ray; 
Or  clustering  fireflies  on  a  drooping  spray! 
And  what  is  like  the  beauty  of  thine  eyes  ? 
The  clear-green  crystal  of  a  spring  that  lies 


FANTASMA.  91 

Deep  in  a  wood  and  bowered  in  thick  vines 
Of  glossy  ivy  and  smooth  muscadines  ; 
The  light  of  emeralds ;  or  the  green-rayed  star 
Of  earth  herself,  shining  to  worlds  afar  ! 
Fairer  by  far  than  even  that  beauteous  band, 
Thy  subject-fays,  who  people  Fairyland, 
And  more  bewitching  than  the  varying  sheen 
Of  thy  bright  wand,  whose  splendors  opaline 
Are  drawn  from  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
Blending  all  spells  of  subtlest  witchery  ! 

FANTASMA. 
If  J,  indeed,  am  beautiful  to  thee, 

Come  thou  with  me  ! 

Thou  canst  not  know 
What  bliss,  what  beauty,  what  full  ecstasy, 

I  can  bestow  ! 

All  I  have  shown  thee  of  beauty  and  power 
Is  merely  the  show  of  a  vanishing  hour, 

A  type,  and  no  more  ! 

But  glory  shall  weave  thee  a  garland  divine, 
Beauty  unveiled  in  her  splendor  shall  shine, 
Pleasure,  and  power,  and  fame  shall  be  thine — 

If  thou  wilt  be  mine ! 
The  spirit  of  music  shall  bow  to  thy  will 
Till  thy  bosom  is  calm,  and  thy  pulses  are  still ; 
The  inmost  recess  of  thy  soul  it  shall  fill, 

Till  thou  lose  the  remembrance  of  wrong  ! 
All  day  shall  the  low,  liquid  sound  of  a  rill 


92  FANTASMA. 

Be  blent  with  the  oriole's  tremulous  trill, 
All  night  the  swift,  silver-winged  moments  shall  thrill 
To  the  mocking-bird's  passion  of  song  ! 

There  shall  the  asphodel  brighten  thy  bower, 

Rich  with  the  odors  of  blossoming  pine ; 

The  amaranth  bloom  by  the  sweet  passion  flower, 
Emblems  of  faith  and  of  beauty  divine  : 

There  is  the  life  for  which  nature  has  meant  thee ; 

There  shalt  thou  drirjc  of  the  poet's  nepenthe  ; 

Heaven-sent  food  of  the  soul  shall  content  thee — 
Earth  in  her  beauty  and  glory  be  thine  ! 

FLORIAN. 

Spirit  of  loveliness !     From  that  first  hour 
When  I  beheld  thee,  I  confessed  thy  power  : 
Whatever  sweet  disguise  thou  didst  assume 
Of  winter's  dazzle  or  of  summer's  bloom, 
Shining  in  orbed  lights  from  starry  skies, 
Or  brightening  earth  with  gleams  of  Paradise  ; 
Or  if,  in  lighter  mood,  wouldst  dance  away 
The  hours  with  frolic  fauns,  as  wild  as  they; 
Ever  I  yielded  to  thy  soft  control; 
But  new — shall  I  with  falsehood  stain  my  soul, 
And  cruelty  ?     Shall  I  my  forehead  brand 
With  cowardice  ?     No  !     Not  for  Fairyland  ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  !     It  may  not  be 
That  I  yield  now  to  thy  sweet  witchery  : 
I  will  not  sin  for  Fairyland — or  thee ! 


FANTASMA.  93 

FANTASMA. 

0  keep  that  soul  forever  bright  and  clear ! 
Ah,  Florian,  never  wert  thou  half  so  dear ; 
Never  so  worthy  love,  as  now  thou  art  ! 

1  will  to  Fairyland  at  once  depart, 

And  send  thee  thence  whatever  help  I  may. 
To  the  dark  cavern  take  thy  lonely  way, 
And  meet  the  terrors  that  await  thee  there 
With  heavenly  armor — courage,  faith  and  prayer. 
She  enters  the  fairy  Boat.       As  FLORIAN  watches  it  glide  away 
to  Fairyland,  the  scene  closes. 


94  FANTASMA. 


PART    IV. 

SCENE  I.  A  great  Cavern  far  underground,  lighted  by  a  weird 
twilight  from  the  inner  recesses.  In  the  center,  a  thick 
Cloud.  Muttered  Thunder. 

Enter  FLORIAN;  sharp  Lightning  and  a  peal  of  Thunder,  echoed 
through  the  inner  caverns. 

FLORIAN. 

Whatever  living  thing  is  in  this  cave, 
I  charge  you,  by  the  Name  that  most  you  fear, 
A  Name  that  cannnot  lightly  leave  the  lip — 
Give  me  your  aid  to  save  the  soul  I  seek ! 

[Thunder;  vivid  lightning  leaps  from  the  Cloud. 
If  thou  art  good,  O  dweller  in  the  Cloud  ! 
I  charge  thee,  in  the  name  of  Supreme  Goodness, 
The  name  of — 
[Crashing  Thunder  drowns  thevoiceof  FLORIAN,  and  is  repeated 

through  remote  windings  of  the  Cave.] 
Lend  me  thine  aid  !     If  evil,  I  command  thee, 
By  the  same  powerful  name — give  up  thy  prey ! 
[The  roar  of  a  mighty  Wind  shakes  the  Cavern, ,] 


FANTASMA.  95 

VOICE  from  the  Cloud. 
Depart ! 

FLORIAN. 

Release  the  captive,  and  I  go, 
Nor  seek  to  unveil  thy  dreadful  mysteries, 
Abhorrent  to  all  goodness  as  to  light. 

VOICE  from  the  Cloud. 
What  seekest  thou  ? 

FLORIAN. 

I  know  but  this — a  captive  ; 
A  veiled  maiden,  innocent  and  pure ; 
The  child  of  heaven,  though  now  within  thy  power. 
\A  low  and  sweet  but  mocking  laugh  rings  through  the  Cavern  in 
soft  musical  echoes.      The  pallid  light  slowly  dies   away. 
Darkness  and  Silence.     FLORIAN  still  remains  as  at  his  en 
trance.      Then  the  Cloud  glows  with  faint  light,  deepening 
slowly  to  intense  flame  ;  the  lurid  Cloud  takes  the  indistinct 
shape  of  a  giant  Demon,  and  moves  toward  FLORIAN.] 

FLORIAN. 

I  fear  thee  not,  thou  most  appalling  Shape, 
Although  I  cannot  look  on  thee  unmoved  ! 
By  this  most  holy  cross,  I  bid  thee  stay  ! 
By  all  its  shadows  forth,  I  bid  thee  yield, 
And  render  now  to  me  the  captive  maid ! 
[Long,  rolling  Thunder ;  the  Cloud  arises  and  disappears,  LUCIA 
is  seen,  veiled,  in  the   Center  of  the  Cave,  which  is  again 
lighted  by  the  dim  twilight.  ] 


96  FANTASMA. 

'Tis  she  !     It  but  remains  to  lift  that  veil, 
And  she  is  safe!     Yes,  I,  indeed,  may  perish, 
But  she  will  go  in  freedom  from  this  place  ; 
Ay,  free  as  air,  and  white  as  purity ! — 
I  will  put  every  thought  of  self  away, 
And  venture,  trusting  the  o'er-ruling  Good ; 
And,  should  I  die,  at  least  I  have  not  failed, 
Because  another  life  is  bought  with  mine. 
He  advances  to  LUCIA  and  raises  the  veil.     A  burst  of  triumph 
ant  music  from  the  interior. 

LUCIA. 
My  brother  !  my  dear  brother ! 

FLORIAN. 

Can  it  be 
My  Lucia !     My  one  sister,  my  twin-soul ! 

BEUCLERC  rushes  in,   with  a  drawn  saber. 

BEAUCLERC. 

Not  yet — not  yet  thy  triumph  is  complete ! 
Though  thou  hast  conquered  Darkness  and  despair, 
I'll  vanquish  thee,  in  spite  of  hell  or  heaven ! 

\He  attacks  FLORIAN  :  the  sword  breaks  in  pieces, .] 
I  will  not  yield  !     Power  yet  remains  to  me  ! — 
Inferior  demons,  ye  who  loathe  the  light, 
Ye  who  exist  to  hate  and  to  destroy ! 
Rise  'to  my  bidding — rise,  and  seize,  and  slay  ! 


FANTASMA.  97 

\_Shadowy  Forms  appear,  thronging  from  the  interior  of  the 
Cavern  :  they  press  toward  the  Brother  and  Sister,  and  con 
tinue  to  grow  more  distinct  and  menacing.^ 

LUCIA. 
Alas  !  my  brother,  must  thou  die  for  me  ? 

FLORIAN. 

Nay,  do  not  fear,  my  sister  !      Thou  art  saved ! 
\The  FIRE-SPIRITS  appear:  soft  light  fills  the  Cavern,  which  glit 
ters  like  a  crystal  Grotto.      The  FIRE-KING  describes,  with 
his  wand,   a  circle  round  LUCIA  and  FLORIAN,  inclosing 
them  in  a  ring  of  white  fire.      The  Demons  pause.  ] 

BEAUCLERC. 

Eternal  cowards !  Draw  ye  back  for  this  ? 
Ye,  who  are  formed  of  never-dying  flame  ? 
Seize  them,  and  slay  ! 

THE  VOICE. 

Depart !  the  hour  is  past. 

\The  Demons  disappear.  BEAUCLERC,  rushing  toward  FLO 
RIAN,  the  FIRE-KING  touches  the  Magician's  breast  with  his 
burning  wand:  BEAUCLERC  falls  senseless.~\ 

THE  FIRE-KING. 
Wiser  is  he,  who  (like  a  child  pursuing 

A  firefly),  takes  delight  in  simple  things, 
Than  he  who  follows,  to  his  own  undoing, 

The  perilous  path  to  Nature's  hidden  springs; 


98  FANTASMA. 

The  fool  of  science,  to  his  bosom  wooing 
A  flame  that  bears  destruction  on  its  wings ! 

(To  Florian:] 

Hail !  victor,  who  hast  driven  from  our  home 

The  cloud  that  on  it  lay ! 
The  gentle  fairy  of  the  mine,  the  gnome, 
The  fire-sprite,  all,  to  welcome  thee  have  come,— 

To  honor  thee,  who  drove  the  cloud  away! 

Receive  this  gift — this  little  crystal  sphere, 

Hollow  within,  to  hold  a  golden  light ; 
A  charmed  fairy  lamp,  whose  rays  appear 

Through  the  surrounding  crystal,  starry-bright. 
I  place  it  like  a  jewel  on  thy  breast : 

O  guard  with  jealous  care  the  starry  spark  ! 
Let  none  this  fairy  favor  from  thee  wrest, 

Nor  ever  let  the  crystal  sphere  grow  dark. 

Bright  Lucia,  free  forever  from  the  veil ! 

Bind  thrice  about  thy  waist  this  jeweled  zone, 
This  slender  snake,  whose  every  golden  scale 

Is  rich  with  lucid  pearl  or  precious  stone. 

THE  FIRE-SPRITES. 
The  mystic  veil  is  gone 

That  hath  hid  so  long  thy  face, 
And  the  silver  light  of  dawn 

Fills  this  cold  and  gloomy  place ; 

And  the  sweet  and  subtle  grace 


FA  NT  ASM  A.  99 

Of  that  light  so  long  withdrawn 
Spreads  its  tender  beams  apace 
Through  the  dim  and  breathless  space  : 

For  the  interposing  veil  is  rent  and  gone ! 

And  we,  the  guardian  powers 

Of  the  central  earth,  in  state 
Will  bear  thee  to  the  bowers 

Where  the  woodland  spirits  wait 

For  thy  coming,  all  elate 
With  a  greater  joy  than  ours; 
All  the  spirits  of  the  flowers, 
Of  the  mountain,  of  the  wood, 
Of  the  field,  and  of  the  flood, 

With  winged  motion  fleet 

Will  haste  to  welcome  thee, 
Kneeling  gladly  at  thy  feet, 

And  at  his  who  set  thee  free ! 
The  Scene  Closes. 


SCENE   II.      The   Fairy    Glen.     ROSEMARY,    BROWNIES    and 
FAUNS. 

ROSEMARY. 

Where  have  you  left  your  simple-hearted  guest, 
The  servant  Dan,  committed  to  your  care  ? 

HAZEL  (a faun). 
He  sleeps  in  my  green  covert  in  the  woods. 


ioo  FANTASMA. 

REDBUD  (a  broumy).- 

We  charmed  him,  that  he  should  not  yet  awake, 
And  gave  him  dreams,  the  sweetest  that  may  be.  — 
But,  Rosemary,  'tis  long  we've   waited  here, 
Yet  Lucia  comes  not,  nor  young  Florian. 
\_Glad  music,  underground.     Auroral  lights  play  in  the  Sky.  ] 

ROSEMARY. 

She  comes  !  She  comes  !     The  dark  horizon  shows 
Auroral  lines  of  amethyst  and  rose, 
And  silver-purple  shootings  ! 
Welcome  to  her  who  makes  the  moonlight  pale! 
Welcome  to  him  whose  true  heart  did  not  fail  ! 
The  flying  echoes  all  along  the  vale 

Take  up  our  fairy  flutings, 
In  tender  tones  that  rise,  and  fade  and  fail, 

The  victor  hail  ! 
[Echoes.     Hail!  Hail! 

[Subterranean  music.  A  founiatn  of  golden  flame  bursts  from 
the  earth,  then  changes  to  a  circle  of  rainbow  fires.  The 
Fire-King  appears  with  LUCIA  and  FLORIAN  in  the  midst 
of  the 


FlRE-KlNG. 

Sing  welcome  to  the  beautiful  and  brave  ; 

Weave  them  fresh  chaplets  of  your  fairest  flowers, 
And  call  the  spirits  of  the  cloud  and  wave 

To  guide  them  to  Fantasma's  fairy  bowers. 


FANTASMA.  101 

Our  pleasing  part  of  this  sweet  task  is  done  : 
'Tis  yours  to  finish  what  we  have  begun. 
\The  Fire  King  descends  and  the  Circle  of  Flame  disappears.} 

FLORIAN. 

Beautiful  spirits !     Ere  you  lead  us  hence 
To  Fairyland,  may  we  not  see  the  Hermit 
And  my  poor  servant  ?     Loving  and  true-hearted 
Is  he,  although  a  slave ;  and  dear  to  me. 
May  he  not  go  with  us  to  Fairyland  ? 

ROSEMARY. 

Whatever  he  has  power  to  do  may  be. 
Behold,  they  come,  the  Hermit  and  your  servant, 
And  you  shall  judge  if  either  has  the  power 
To  follow  you  into  Fantasma's  land. 

Enter  Hermit  and  DAN,  led  by  the   Wood  Spirits.     LUCIA  and 
FLORIAN  kneel  to  the  Hermit. 

HERMIT. 

Arise,  my  children,  gentle,  brave  and  true  ! 
Much  have  ye  dared,  and  much  have  overcome ; 
But  ye  must  leave  this  haunted  wood  in  haste, 
Nor  view  the  wonders  of  the  Fairyland. 
Beauteous  is  the  show  of  this  vain  world, 
Yet  "beautiful"  means  hidden  evil  merely  ; 
Which  your  untutored  hearts  have  long  adored. 


J02  FANTASMA. 

ROSEMARY. 

Old  man,  art  thou  so  ancient,  wise,  and  good, 
And  yet  so  blindly  ignorant?     In  truth, 
There  is  a  lesson  set  for  thee  to  learn.  — 
Ye  spirits  of  the  flowerland,  Oriole 
And  Mariposa,  lead  the  Hermit  hence 
To  meet  Fantasma  in  her  moonlit  isles.  — 
Fear  not,  old  man  !     We  touch  with  reverent  hands 
Thy  silver  locks,  enriched  by  costly  time  : 
To  age,  not  less  than  virtue,  do  we  bow. 
Fear  not  to  go  with  us  !     Too  little  known 
Are  we  to  thee,  dear  as  thou  art  to  us. 
Go  !  and  this  lovely  pair  shall  meet  thee  soon 
In  fair  Fantasma's  pleasure-laden  bowers. 
{.Fairies  lead  off  the  Hermit,  whom  ROSEMARY  touches  with  her 


FLORIAN. 

But,  why,  since  we  shall  meet  in  Fairyland, 
May  we  not  altogether  journey  thither  ? 

ROSEMARY, 

The  good  old  Hermit  cannot  follow  you  ; 
Your  starry  path  lies  high  above  the  clouds, 
But  he,  though  always  looking  to  the  skies, 
Must  keep  the  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet. 
As  for  your  servant,  (quicker  far  than  you 
To  see  with  superstition's  double  sight,) 
The  fine,  ethereal  forms  that  wait  on  you 


FANTASMA.  103 

He  cannot  see,  nor  touch,  nor  understand. 
Try  him  !     He  knows  me,  a  half-human  sprite ; 
He  can  discern  the  glancing  Will-o'-the-Wisp ; 
He  knows,  and  fears,  a  demon  or  a  witch ; 
But  point  him  to  these  thin,  aerial  shapes  : 
Bid  him  look  on  the  fairy  Eglantine. 

FLORIAN. 

Come  hither,  Dan,  and  look  not  thus  amazed. 
Since  last  we  parted,  whither  have  you  been  ? 

DAN. 

All  'bout  among  the  witches  and  de  elves ! 
Is  dis  yourself,  Mahs'  Flo.  ?     And  is  dis  you, 
Miss  Lucia  ?  I  can't  trus'  my  eyes  no  mo' ! 
But  nothin's  hurt  me  in  dis  haunted  place. 
I  went  to  dat  ole  church  a-huntin'  you, 
And  de  witch-music  sot  me  off  to  sleep ; 
And  den,  I  dremp,  as  I  had  gone  to  heaven, 
A  great,  wide  place,  all  thick  wid  shady  trees, 
Warm  like  a  summer-day ;  and  dere  I  saw — 

FLORIAN. 

Nay,  you  shall  tell  your  dream  another  time ! 
Round  us  there  is  a  ring  of  lovely  forms; 
Look  on  them,  Dan,  and  tell  me  what  you  see. 

DAN. 

Why,  here  I  see  the  elf-child:  mighty  kind 
She  been  to  me  dis  night.     I  ain't  afeard 


104  FANTASMA. 

Of  her,  nor  dese  here  rosy,  brown-skinned  boys, 
Wid  furry  ears  like  rabbits,  quick  black  eyes, 
And  grape-and-ivy  twisted  round  dere  heads. 

ROSEMARY. 

The  brownies  and  the  fauns,  these  black-eyed  boys, 
Shall  talk  with  you,  and  teach  you  many  things. 
Wild  are  they,  and  yet  gentle;  human-hearted, 
Although  their  pointed  ears  are  clad  in  fur. 
These  are  not  like  gross  fauns  of  olden  time, 
But  frolic-loving  spirits  of  the  woods. 
They  love  dumb  creatures  of  the  mother  Earth, 
And,  among  humankind,  they  love  the  meek, 
The  young,  the  helpless,  and  the  ignorant. — 
But  is  there  nothing  more  that  you  can  see  ? 

DAN. 

Nothin  at  all,  cept  my  Mahs'  Flo.,  and  you, 
Miss  Lucia,  if  'tis  you  in  dese  wild  woods. 

LUCIA. 

Nay,  see,  good  Dan,  close  standing  at  my  side, 
There  is  a  lady  with  long,  lovely  hair, 
And  dewy-shining  eyes,  sweet  smiling  there ; 
Her  robe,  a  lace  like  cobweb  hung  with  dew, 
And  garments  green  as  young  wheat  shining  through. 

DAN. 

I  see  a  fringe-tree  hangin'  in  full  tossel, 
But  spider-webs  and  ladies,  not  a  mossel. 


FA  NTASMA. 

FLORIAN. 

Do  you  not  see  the  wreath  about  her  hair 
Shed  sparks  of  light  upon  her  tresses  fair  ? 
And  the  fine  point  of  flame  above  her  brow, 
That  all  around  her  spreads  a  tender  glow, 
Like  silver-softness  of  dissolving  mist, 
By  the  full  moon  to  airy  brightness  kissed  ? 

DAN. 

I  see  de  fox-fire's  greenish  kind  o'spark, 
And  lightin'-bugs  a  shinin'  in  de  dark. 

FLORIAN. 

0  eyes,  to  such  ethereal  beauty  blind! 
But  say,  cannot  you  hear  the  fairy  kind, 
With  airy  flutes,  and  voices  sweet  and  low, 
And  winged  feet,  that  lightly  come  and  go  ? 
With  ecstasy  the  air  is  thrilled  and  stirred. 

DAN. 

1  hear  de  night-thrush  and  de  mockin'-bird ; 
De  frogs  croak  in  de  marsh,  and  now  and  den, 
A  hootin'  owl  dat's  higher  up  de  glen. 

ROSEMARY. 

If  he  cannot  behold  sweet  Eglantine, 
How  can  he  see  Fantasma's  beauty  shine  ? 
His  mortal  frame  is  all  unfit  to  bear 
The  purity  of  Fairyland's  fine  air : 


106  FANTASMA. 

For  higher  souls  than  his,  and  minds  more  clear, 
Have  shrunk  from  that  supernal  atmosphere. 

REDBUD  (FIRST  BROWNV). 
Leave  him  to  us  !     In  harmless  revelry 
Night's  few  remaining  hours  shall  lightly  flee; 
And  truths  shall  find  their  way  to  heart  and  brain, 
Which  he  in  his  own  world  shall  still  retain. 

SlLVERLEAF  (FlRST  FAUN). 

Come,  Dan,  we  will  not  envy  Fairyland, 
When  pleasures  here  are  spread  on  every  hand. 

We'll  follow  the  wild-bee 
To  hidden  sweets  within  the  honey-tree ; 
We'll  seek  the  fairest  fruits  our  woods  afford, 

And  gather  the  wild-gourd, 
Wherein  the  wine  of  elf-land  shall  be  poured, 
Which  never  clouds  the  brain,  but  warms  the  heart, 
Till  the  last  memory  of  pain  depart. 

REDBUD  (FIRST  BROWNY). 
And  music  you  shall  hear 
Fit  for  a  monarch's  ear, 
From  pipes  of  reeds  most  musical  and  clear ; 
While  our  quick  feet  keep  time 
Like  smooth  words  in  a  rhyme, 
Nor  any  evil  thing  shall  venture  near. 

{Exeunt  Fauns  and  Brownies  with  DAN. 


FANTASMA.  107 

ROSEMARY. 

Come,  let  the  poet  be  with  laurel  crowned ; 
Let  beauty's  locks  with  asphodels  be  wound  I1 
The  milk-white  flowers  that  speak  of  fadeless  bloom, 
In  floral  stars  that  light  the  forests'  gloom  : 
Crown  them,  that  so  the  cloudland's  airy  band 
May  lead  them  to  Fantasma's  magic-land. 
[As   the  Fairies  crown  LUCIA  and   FLORIAN,  aerial  music  is 
heard,  and  the  Sylphides  descend.] 

THE  QUEEN-SYLPH. 
Behold  the  fairy  car 

Whose  splendor  shines  for  you ! 

It  is  made  of  ether  blue, 
It  is  wreathed  with  many  a  star, 

And  the  moonlight  silvers  through ; 

And  above  it,  bending,  too, 
The  rainbow's  triple  bar — 

That  most  ethereal  bow 

The  night-skies  sometimes  show 

When  the  full  moon  pours  her  rays 

Through  the  night-rain's  tender  haze. 

Ascend  the  starry  car  ! 
We  will  guide  it  safely  through 
The  land  of  clouds  and  dew, 

Like  a  newly  risen  star 


io8  FANTASMA. 

Through  the  heavens'  purple  blue, 

To  the  Fairyland  afar  ! 
LUCIA  and  FLORIAN  ascend  the  car.   The  scene  closes. 


SCENE  III.      The  Shore  of  the  Fairy  Sea.     The  Fairy  Car 
descends  with  the  Sylph-Queen,  LUCIA  and  FLORIAN. 

SYLPH-QUEEN. 

Bright  Lucia  and  fair  Florian !  lovely  pair, 
We  have  brought  you  safely  through  the  realms  of  air, 

Through  the  dim  cloudland  winging 
Our  way  to  this  enchanted  sea, 
Whence  rise,  in  happy  haste  to  welcome  ye, 
The  sea-nymphs,  moving  to  the  melody 

Of  waves  in  gladness  singing. 
And  lo,  the  ocean-maidens  bring  you  gifts  ! 
See,  where  Ligeia1  in  both  hands  up-lifts 
A  carcanet  into  the  light  that  shifts 

From  point  to  point  of  the  long  trailing  splendor ; 
Opal,  and  jacinth,  and  aqua-marine, 
Coral,  and  lazulite,  and  almondine, 
And  fair  as  moonlit  snow-drift's  trembling  sheen, 

Full-rounded  pearls  in  pallid  beauty  tender. 
And  we,  the  sylphides,  have  bestowed  on  you 
A  gift  more  subtle  than  the  ethereal  blue, 
More  fair  and  fine  than  rainbows  in  the  dew : 
A  gift  ye  both  will  see  and  understand, 
Treading  the  fragrant  lawns  of  Fairyland. 


FANTASMA.  109 

FLORIAN. 

Air-dwelling  spirit  of  the  starlit  eyes ! 
Must  we,  then,  lose  our  gentle  guardian  here  ? 
Why  must  we  lose  to  gain  some  newer  joy, 
A  dear,  familiar  bliss  ? 

SYLPH-QUEEN. 

In  Fairyland 

It  is  not  so  :  we  will  re-join  you  there, 
With  fairies  of  the  woodland  and  the  mine. 
\The  Sylph  disappears.   Soft  music  from  under  the  sea :  LIGECA 
approaches  the  strand.} 

LUCIA. 

Child  of  the  sea,  out-stretching  pearl-white  hands, 
Hands  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  gems 
Whose  close-linked  splendors  from  thy  fingers  trail — 
Is  it  for  me,  that  most  resplendent  chain  ? 

LIGEIA. 

Thrice  coiled  about  thy  neck,  beloved  maid! 
Not  the  gold  spark  upon  thy  brother's  breast, 

Nor  thy  rich  girdle,  nor  the  unfading  braid 
Of  fairy-blossoms  wreathed  about  your  brows, 
Can  give  you  bliss  more  high  than  this  bestows ; 

For,  with  this  necklace,  thou  shalt  be  possessed 

Of  joy  that  will  not  fade,  a  heart  in  perfect  rest ! 


no  FANTASMA. 

(To  Florian.} 

Take  thou  this  charmed  lyre — 

'Twill  make  thee  music's  lord : 
Through  the  strings  of  silver  wire 
Runs  a  subtle  fairy  fire, 
Refining  every  chord. 
(A  slwoting-star flashes  across  the  Sea. ) 

Obey  that  star — a  call  to  you  and  me ! 
Behold,  the  kindly  moon  has  laid  for  thee 
A  bridge  of  pearl-and-silver  on  the  sea, 

Fit  for  the  foot-prints  airy 
Of  the  bright  spirits  of  the  cloud  and  star, 
Who  hither  led  your  rainbow-circled  car ; 

Or  for  a  woodland  fairy, 

Who  would  not  wish  in  our  green  wave  to  dip 
The  downy  plumelet  of  her  pinion's  tip. 

And  you,  if  so  ye  will, 

May  walk  upon  this  moon-laid  bridge  of  pearl, 
Nor  fear  the  billow's  roll,  the  eddy's  whirl, 

For  the  charmed  sea  is  still. 

Or  choose  ye  to  lave  your  limbs  in  the  wave, 
And  sport  with  the  sea  maidens  there  ? 

We  will  shield  you  from  harms  with  white-wreathed  arms, 
And  the  veil  of  our  far-flowing  hair. 


FANTASMA.  in 

Or,  choose  ye  a  beautiful  boat, 

The  finest,  the  fairest  afloat; 

A  lily  that  lies  on  the  lake, 

A  shell  from  the  depths  of  the  sea — 

Choose,  and  a  shallop  we'll  make, 

Whose  motion  shall  melody  be  ! ' 

LUCIA. 

O  yonder  smiles  enchanting  Fairyland  ! 
Sweet  is  the  sea,  and  sweet  the  flowery  strand, 
And  sweeter  still,  Fantasma's  fairy  band ! 

FLORIAN. 

The  lovely  spirits  of  the  woodland  bowers, 
Their  chaplets  thick  with  many-colored  flowers ; 
The  snow-winged  sylphs,  with  silver-sprinkled  tiars ; 
The  jeweled  guardians  of  the  central  fires ; 
White-floating  sirens,  lilies  of  the  sea, 
Moving  in  time  to  their  own  melody, 
Tossing  round  arms,  and  crinkling  tresses  spangled 
With  drops  of  spray,  like  sea-moss  pearl-entangled ! 
\Music  floats  over  the  Sea  from  the   Fairy  Islands.      The  Sea- 
Nymphs  answer  with  harp  and  shell.] 

LIGEIA. 

See,  in  the  whiteness  of  the  full  moon's  smile, 
Fantasma's  fairy  shallop  leaves  the  isle  ; 
A  fluted  shell,  wreathed  like  an  Argonaut, 

Bright  as  the  sickle  of  the  waning  moon, 


FANTASMA. 

Radiant  with  luster  from  the  morning  caught, 

And  trembling  star-like  on  the  still  lagoon  ; 

Such  is  the  splendor  of  this  lucid  shell, 

Lined  with  a  golden  light  that  through  it  beams, 

Like  fireflies  in  a  lily's  waxen  cell ; 

The  silver-silken  sail  above  it  gleams, 

Sending  to  earth  and  air  strange  odor  new, 

Sweeter  than  heliotrope  in  morning  dew. 

Above  the  barque  is  bending 
A  halo  of  pale-golden  lights, 

With  mildest  amber  blending ; 
And,  floating  higher  still,  a  band  of  sprites, 

Like  Old-Worlds  Cupids,  flying 
In  double  circles,  scatter  flowers, 
Till,  reddened  by  the  perfumed  showers, 

The  quiet  sea  is  lying, 
Like  a  Titan  who  reposes 

'Neath  a  covering  of  roses. 

And  the  snowy  swans  that  guide 
The  shallop  o'er  the  tide, 
Are  the  singing-swans  of  old; 
And  their  notes  of  liquid  gold 
Made  the  melting  harmony 
That  came  floating  o'er  the  sea. 

Now,  the  shallop  nearer  floats  ! 
Enter  ye  this  boat  of  boats  ; 


FAN  TAB  MA.  113 

While  the  fairy  sprites  above 
Float,  an  airy  ring  of  love, 
In  the  smiling  sea  beneath, 
We  surround  you,  like  a  wreath 
Of  the  water-lilies  fair. 
Merry  spirits  in  the  air, 
Sound  your  softest  melody — 
We  will  answer  from  the  sea  ! 
And  the  swans  therein  will  chime, 
As  their  silver  wings  keep  time, 
Like  the  sweetness  of  a  triple-ending  rhyme. 
\_Soft  Music.     As  the  boat  conveys  LUCIA  and  FLORIAN  across 
the  Sea,  the  Scene  closes. ~\ 


114  FANTASMA. 


PART  V. 

SCENE  I.     Fairyland.      The    Throne-Room   in   the   Palace   of 
Beauty. 

[FANTASMV  on  her  throne,  attended  by  the  Fairy  Court,  ROSE 
MARY  and  the  Hermit.] 

FANTASMA. 

Thou  hast  not  seen  the  whole  of  Fairyland  ; 
That  could  not  be,  in  man's  brief  span  ;  but  much 
Of  new  and  strange  hast  thou  beheld  and  heard. 
What  thinkest  thou  of  my  world  of  loveliness  ? 

HERMIT. 

Nay,  spirit,  ask  me  rather  what  I  think 
Of  shapes  that  people  Saturn ;  for  I  know 
As  much  or  more  of  that  dim,  distant  world, 
Than  of  this  region  thou  call'st  Fairyland. 

FANTASMA. 
What  dost  thou  call  it  ? 

HERMIT. 

Even  as  thou  dost. 
A  land  of  '\vildering  lights  and  witching  shades; 


FANTASMA.  115 

World  in  a  world ;  where  strangely  are  commingled 
Beauty  and  wisdom,  virtue,  mirth,  and  truth, 
Wealth,  charity,  devotion,  happiness ; 
Some  of  which  things,  wise  men  have  ever  taught 
Were  mortal  to  each  other. 

FANTASMA. 

And  why  so  ? 

Say,  why  should  wisdom  not  be  beautiful, 
Or  beauty  wise  ? 

HERMIT. 

Grant  that  so  much  might  be ; 
Can  riot  and  religion  dwell  together  ? 

FANTASMA. 

No  !     But  religion  may  abide  with  joy. 
Thrice  blest  is  he  in  whom  they  dwell  together ; 
Whose  clear  large  soul  is  rich  in  faith ;  whose  heart 
Holds  a  continual  feast  of  merriment. 

HERMIT. 

This  fine,  strange  air  exhilarates  like  wine; 

I  see,  as  though  I  never  saw  before, 

And  unaccustomed  thoughts  are  in  my  mind. 

Most  strange,  that  Beauty  teaches  sage  Experience  ! 

FANTASMA. 
GOD'S  staves  are  "beauty  and  bands;"1  but  thou  wouldst 

break 
The  first,  and  make  the  last  an  iron  rod. 


u6  FANTASMA. 

The  best  of  men  have  made  mistakes,  but  few 

So  deadly,  and  so  passing  strange  as  this  : 

To  drive  out  Beauty  from  her  Father's  house, 

So  that  she  wanders  homeless  through  the  world, 

(Her  rightful  empire),  hated  of  her  friends. 

Triumphant  Evil  claims  her  as  his  own  ; 

A  claim  as  false  as  the  great  Source  of  falsehood ; 

For  Evil  is  not  beautiful,  nor  was, 

Nor  ever  will  be,  while  the  ages  roll. 

Beauty  is  good,  and  Goodness  beautiful ! 

Though  the  Snake's  worshipers  may  call  him  seraph, 

Though  Sin  wear  beauty's  mask — it  is  a  mask, 

And  nothing  more.     Beauty  and  sin  are  foes, 

For  holiness  and  beauty  are  but  one. 

HERMIT. 

Perforce,  I  must  admit  the  saying  true. 
A  goodly  and  a  glorious  work  art  thou 
Of  the  Supreme  in  goodness  and  in  glory, 
Fantasma,  spirit  of  the  beautiful ! 

FANTASMA. 

Wilt  thou  not  deign  to  be  our  guest  awhile, 
O  reverend  lover  of  all  moral  beauty  ? 
We  will  become  thy  pupils  ;  and  thou,  too, 
May'st  learn  of  us,  despite  thy  time-touched  hair. 

Thy  mortal  knowledge,  won  from  grief  and  pain, 

• 

Will  strengthen  our  light  souls  with  rich  experience  ; 
And  we  will  teach  thee  very  many  ways, 


FANTASMA.  117 

More  than  thou  know'st,  to  soothe  the  wounded  heart, 
Cheer  the  dark  mind,  and  heal  the  stricken  soul  ! 

HERMIT. 

Right  gladly  will  I  stay  and  learn  of  thee. 
My  soul  is  filled  with  new  humility  ; 
Humility,  the  sweetest  virtue  known 
To  man,  and  the  least  practiced  ! 

FANTASMA. 

Honor's  self 

Walks  hand  in  hand  with  sweet  humility. 
[  Triumphal  music.     Soft  brilliant  lights  play  through  the  Room. 
The  fountains  play.      Enter   LUCIA   and   FLORIAN.     A 
shower  of  bright    blossoms  falls  before  them,  as  if  thrown 
by  invisible  spirits  in  the  airJ\ 
Come  near,  my  best-beloved,  my  beautiful ! 
Kneel  not  to  me — I  will  descend  to  you  ; 
You  and  this  holy  Hermit,  whom  I  love. 
Of  human  kind,  ye  only  are  so  blest 
To  press  the  magic  soil  with  mortal  feet, 
Though  oft  your  souls  have  dwelt  in  Fairyland. 

LUCIA. 

Dear  and  most  wondrous  spirit!     Is  the  Hermit 
Among  thy  lovers  and  thy  friends,  at  last  ? 

FLORIAN. 
Lost  in  the  bliss  of  simply  being  here, 


iiS  FANTASMA. 

I  saw  thee  not,  good  father!    .Though  I  knew 
Fantasma's  gracious  love  had  brought  thee  hither. 

FANTASMA. 

Hermit,  thou  seemest  lost  in  pleasant  dreams ; 
What  most  awakes  thy  wonder  in  my  palace  ? 

HERMIT. 

Its  beauty  !     Its  surpassing  excellence 
Of  beauty  and  of  splendor  ! 

FANTASMA. 

Thou  see'st  best 
And  clearest,  what  thy  mind  best  apprehends. 

HERMIT. 

This  vast  hall,  whence  so  many  galleries  lead, 
Like  a  wide-branching  cave  whose  starry  roof 
Rests  on  stalactites  white  as  frozen  snow ; 
The  glittering  columns,  (garlanded  with  flowers 
Whereon  the  springing  fountains  scatter  dew), 
Rise  in  long,  shining  ranks  from  the  smooth  floor, 
Translucent,  clear,  and  green  as  malachite, 
Enriched  with  veins  and  spangles  of  bright  gold. 
Along  the  gleaming  walls  of  lucent  pearl 
Run  rich  festoons  and  wreaths  of  glowing  flowers, 
Burning  like  jewels  :  and  around  them  hover 
Rich  butterflies  and  birds  of  starry  plumes. 


FANTASMA.  119 

FANTASMA. 
And  see'st  thou  nothing  more  to  wake  thy  wonder? 

HERMIT. 

Too  much !     But,  chiefly,  thy  resplendent  throne, 
A  mass  of  precious  stones — or,  are  they  stars  ? 
Mingling  prismatic  tints,  like  morning  dew. 
On  either  side,  as  they  were  jeweled  statues, 
A  peacock  stands,  lifting,  in  graceful  pride, 
Lithe,  lustrous   neck  and  crested  head  superb. 
The  throne  is  shaded  by  a  canopy 
Made  in  the  semblance  of  a  passion-flower, 
The  great  corolla's  rayant  fringes  spread, 
Round  which  there  floats  a  ring  of  humming-birds. 

LUCIA. 

With  ruby-glmcing  throat  and  flashing  breast, 
They  keep  one  place,  and  hang  on  whirring  wings, 
Summer's  sweet  lovelings,  quivering  with  delight. 

FANTASMA. 

So,  poets,  in  their  moving  through  the  world, 
Awake  the  sleeping  harmony  ;  sweet  echoes 
Of  careless  words  and  feet  whose  natural  movement 
The  flattering  world  has  called  a  poet's  work. 

FLORIAN. 
O  fairy  work  !     Merely  to  breathe  and  be ! 


FANTASMA. 

LUCIA. 

The  Hermit  looks  upon  the  wondrous  throne, 
But  brighter  is  the  queen  who  sits  thereon. 
Wearing  the  emerald  star  above  her  brow  ! 
Thy  silvan  crown,  the  sensitive  vine,  yet  wreathes 
The  golden  tendrils  of  thy  floating  hair, 
With  delicate  flowers  and  plume-leaves  dewy-wet, 
Despite  this  lavish  splendor  ;  and  the  robe 
Veiling  thy  matchless  symmetry  of  shape, 
Glows  like  the  morning's  blush  through  tender  mist, 
As  rosy-silver  as  thine  aureole. 

FLORIAN. 

O  beautiful  Fantasma!     Who  dost  bring 
All  rays  of  beauty  into  one  bright  ring, 
As  the  sweet  mocking-bird  has  made  his  own 
All  music  that  the  vocal  woods  have  known, — 
Is  it  thy  star  wherein  the  witchery  lies, 
Or  the  soft  splendor  of  those  liquid  eyes  ? 
Is  it  the  opal  scepter  gives  command, 
Or  the  white  waving  of  that  snow-soft  hand  ? 
Is  it  the  words  we  hold  our  breath  to  hear, 
Or  tender  tones  that  bless  the  charmed  ear  ? 
Immortal  beauty  lights  those  features  fair; 
Unearthly  splendor  wreathes  thy  flame-gold  hair  ; 
No  hue  of  earth  upon  that  cheek  doth  dwell, 
A  crimson  fire  within  a  pearl-white  shell ; 
And  richer  than  the  crimson  of  the  cheek 
Are  the  fine  lips  that  even  in  silence  speak, 


FANTASM  A. 

Their  every  glowing  curve  and  eloquent  line 
With  fullest  meaning  fraught  and  dreams  divine ! 

FANTASMA. 

Come,  let  us  walk  among  the  balmy  groves, 
Soft  vales,  and  moon-lit  lawns  of  Fairyland. 
Lucia  and  Florian,  you  shall  go  with  me, 
But  the  good  Hermit  needs  an  hour  of  rest. 
Rosemary,  lead  him  to  those  soft,  low  vales 
Wherein  my  shepherds  feed  their  snowy  flocks. 
Lead  him  beneath  the  shade  of  coffee-trees, 
And  let  their  berry  yield  its  golden  juice, 
The  cup  of  comfort.     Bring  him  carven  bowls 
Of  satin-wood  and  cedar,  brimmed  with  cream 
And  the  rich  beverage  of  the  chocolate-tree. 
Gather  him  bread-fruit  from  our  Asian  vales, 
Fruit  from  the  honey-locust,  rich  bananas, 
Pomegranates,  figs,  and  golden-dusted  dates  ; 
And,  after,  lull  him  into  sweetest  rest, 
On  cushions  of  clover-pinks  and  lavender. 

HERMIT. 

I  thought,  your  realm  had  been  the  land  of  dreams ; 
The  soul's  retreat.     You  have  material  pleasures  ? 

FANTASMA. 

Rosemary,  where  the  changeling  fairies  dwell 
Have  they  not  gardens  human-like  and  fair  ? 


FANTASMA. 

ROSEMARY. 
There  are  soft  vales,  kept  green  by  winding  brooks, 

Along  whose  borders  mint  and  cresses  grow, 
And  calamus,  and  comfrey;  in  damp  nooks 

The  purple  flag  and  azure  iris  blow ; 

Hyacinths,  with  pink  blossoms  all  a-row  ; 
And  there  are  banks  with  parsley  overrun, 

And  wild-thyme,  trailing  to  the  stream  below ; 
Marjoram,  sage,  and  basil,  every  ore; 
Sweet-fennel,  nard,  and  rue;  but  evil  weeds  are  none. 

Here  the  narcissus  opens  cups  of  gold, 

And  broad-leaf  lilies  on  the  waters  rest ; 
Love-vines  and  bamboo,  tangled  in  one  fold 

O'errun  the  alders,  shade  the  brooklet's  breast ; 

The  trailing  ivy,  in  full  verdure  dressed, 
And  trumpet-vines,  and  water-loving  flowers; 

Green  thickets,  where  the  redbird  builds  his  nest. 
The  little  streams  are  lost  among  their  bowers, 
And  greenly  spread  the  meads,  refreshed    by  frequent 

showers. 

There  grow  green  rosemary,  and  plumy  tansy, 

And  lavender,  and  fragrant  celery ; 
Strawberries  riot  with  the  pink  and  pansy, 

In  sweet  confusion,  beautiful  to  see, 

Because  each  grows  by  each  harmoniously, 
Nor  kill  each  other,  as  poor  earthly  plants. 

Here,  beauty,  wedded  to  utility, 


FANTASMA.  123 

Not  merely  wears  the  cestus  that  enchants, 

But  bears  the  fruitful  horn,  suppl)  ing  simplest  wants. 

There  are  fruit-laden  orchards,  spicy  apples, 
Cherry,  and  plum,  and  rosy  nectarine; 

Pears,  striped  and  flecked  with  green  and  ruddy  dapples  ; 
Orange  and  citron,  lemon,  fig,  and  pine, 
And  many  a  fair  fruit  from  the  glowing  Line, 

And  vines,  with  black  and  golden  clusters  crowned, 

Pomegranates  whose  ripe  seeds  like  garnets  shine  : 

The  over-laden  branches  kiss  the  ground 

Where  tempting  melons  lie  profusely  all  around. 

FANTASMA. 

Lead  thou  the  Hermit  to  those  peaceful  bowers, 
That  he  may  rest;  for  much  has  he  to  see, 
To  hear,  and  learn,  ere  he  leaves  Fairyland. 
Come,  Lucia,  and  my  Florian,  let  us  go 
And  mingle  with  my  fays  of  bower  and  lawn. 
Be  not  astonished,  if  you  should  behold 
The  buds  of  spring  beside  the  fruits  of  fall ; 
We  might,  if  we  so  willed  it,  mingle  spring 
With  summer,  autumn  with  the  winter  blend, 
Braiding  the  year  in  one  redundant  wreath  ; 
But  for  ourselves  we  seldom  use  this  power ; 
Sweeter  it  is  to  follow  Nature's  law, 
And  take  the  rolling  seasons  as  they  come, 
{Rainbou'S  flash  from  the  fountains,  that  spring  higher  ;  and  the 
rainbcu'S,    ciossid  and  rc-crosicd.  foun   an    arch   through 


124  FANTASMA. 

which  FANTASMA,  LUCIA,  FLORIAN,  and  attendant  Fairies 
pass  from  the  Hall:  ROSEMARY  leads  away  the  HERMIT 
by  another  door.  A  dance  of  Fairies  to  gay  music.  The 
rainbows  increase,  crossing  in  soft  confusion,  till  all  grows 
indistinct,  and  the  scene  closes  amid  the  play  of  lights  and 
colors.  1 


SCENE  II.  The  Pleasure  Grounds  of  Fairyland:  FAIRIES, 
NYMPHS,  &c.  Apart  from  the  others,  FANTASMA,  LUCIA, 
and  FLORIAN. 

LUCIA. 

The  moonlight  falls,  a  liquid-silver  flood, 

Filling  the  air  with  rapture  sweet  and  strange ; 

Touching  to  fairy  loveliness  the  wood, 

The  flowery  lawn,  the  distant  mountain-range, 

The  streamlet,  shining  in  its  claritude. 

FLORIAN. 

Behold  our  shadows  on  the  dewy  ground  ! 
Each  head  is  with  a  saint-like  glory  crowned, 
Like  the  anthelia  of  the  Eastern  isle, 
When  earth  lies  hushed  in  morning's  rosy  smile. 
Is  it  the  Fairyland's  supernal  light 
That  crowns  our  shadows  with  a  wreath  so  bright  ? 

FANTASMA. 
That  shining  shade  is  but  the  reflex  fair 

Of  the  invisible  crown  on  you  bestowed 


FANTASMA.  125 

By  the  ethereal  fays  of  air  and  cloud, 
The  happy  head  that  such  a  wreath  doth  wear 

Shall  seldom  by  regret  or  grief  be  bowed  ; 
Never  by  shame,  never  by  sordid  care. 

LUCIA. 

This  gift  they  said  we  could  but  understand 
When  breathing  the  fine  air  of  Fairyland. 

FANTASMA. 

Come,  let  us  rest  beside  this  dripping-spring, 

Beneath  these  soft  mimosa-trees,  that  throw 
Such  delicate  shadows  on  the  stream  below; 

Shadows  more  fine  than  fairy  penciling. 

This  dropping  fountain,  with  its  silver  ring, 

Lulls  yet  enlivens,  with  a  witching  spell, 
Because  a  spirit  lives  within  the  well : 

My  fairy  realm  contains  no  lovelier  thing. 

FLORIAN. 
May  we  not  see  this  fairy  of  the  fount  ? 

As  kind  as  beautiful  must  be  the  sprite 
Who  drew  these  rillets  from  the  azure  mount, 

To  make  this  well  for  Fairyland's  delight. 
The  moonlight  loves  to  strike  across  the  rain 

Of  twinkling  drops,  and  a  fine  fairy  bow 
Appears,  and  disappears,  and  comes  again, 

As  clouds  across  the  sweet  moon  come  and  go. 


126  FANTASMA. 

FANTASMA. 

Fairy,  arise!     The  moonlit  skies 
Smile  like  the  tender  light  that  lies 

On  the  silvery  brow  of  dawn; 
And  the  dew  on  the  daisied  lawn 
Is  shining  like  the  light  of  liquid  eyes  tear-bright ! 

Sweet  Claribel,  arise ! 
Arise,  O  fountain  sprite! 
\The  Fountain-Fairy  arises  from  the  dripping-spring.^ 

FLORIAN. 
Phantasmal  beauty  !  with  transparent  wings 

So  crystal-clear  they  almost  mock  the  sight, 
And  hung  with  bells  like  lilies  made  of  light ! 
And  every  tiny  bell  vibrating  swings, 
Chiming  with  the  sweet  fountain  as  it  rings. 

CLARIBEL. 
For  thee  I  leave,  O  queen ! 

My  cool  and  crystal  dwelling, 
Where  waters,  diamond-sheen, 

From  emerald  urns  are  welling. 
Harken  to  my  silver  singing ; 
All  my  crystal  bells  are  ringing, 
Ringing  sweet, 

Ringing  fleet, 

Till  all  the  echoes  run  on  airy  feet, 
Adown  the  balmy  gale, 
Along  the  flowery  vale, 


FANTASMA.  127 

Till  the  distant  mountain  sends  me  soft  replies. 

[A  Chime  of  Bells. 
I  hear  the  hidden  streams 

That  feed  my  fairy  fountain, 
Awaking  from  their  dreams 

In  the  echo-charmed  mountain, 
Upspringing  to  my  singing, 
While  my  airy  bells  are  ringing — 
Ringing  low, 

Ringing  slow, 
Fading,  fading,  as  I  go ; 

And  when  I  disappear, 
The  echoes,  fine  and  clear, 
Melt  as  softly  as  the  music  heard  in  dreams. 
[A  chime  of  bells,  growing  softer  as  the  Fairy  disappears^ 

LUCIA. 

How  strange,  that  music  sweet  as  this  should  make 
The  spirits  fail,  the  yielding  mind  grow  sad  ! 

FLORIAN. 

Yet  did  the  echoes'  fairy  chimes  awake 

Joy  in  my  soul,  so  sweetly  did  they  fade, 
Like  falling  waters  in  a  distant  glade, 

Receding  as  the  onward  way  we  take. 

FANTASMA. 

Nay,  ye  must  not  dream  pensively  to-night, 
Whose  coming  has  made  Fairyland  more  bright ; 


128  FANTASMA. 

For  I  would  show  you  all  the  wonders  here : 

The  splendid  past  shall  to  your  sight  be  clear  ; 

The  bright  creations  of  the  painter's  art, 

Sculpture  and  poesy  shall  do  their  part ; 

In  shapes  most  palpable  and  clear, 

Long-lost  poetic  dreams  for  you  shall  re-appear, 

And  higher  fancies,  to  the  world  more  dear. 

Whate'er  ye  will,  shall  rise  above  the  wave 

Of  time,  though  hidden  there  whole  ages  long  : 
Choose — heroes,  beauties,  sages,  saints  among  ; 

Divine  Achilles,  beautiful  and  brave, 

Or  sad-eyed  Lamia  of  a  modern  song. 

But,  one  short  hour  will  not  suffice  for  this, 

And,  when  the  morning  comes,  you  must  return 
To  your  own  world,  to  labor  and  to  mourn, 

And  to  endure  with  patience  all  that  is 

Apportioned  to  a  spirit  shut  in  clay, 

Till  death  shall  take  the  prison-bars  away. 

[A  mocking-bird  sings. 

FLORIAN. 
O  matchless  songster !  never  fairy  grove 

Could  add  more  sweetness  to  the  liquid  note 
That  flows  like  golden  honey  from  thy  throat, 
When,  singing  to  the  moon  thy  passionate  love, 

Those    witching  strains  through  some  lone  cham 
ber  float, 
And  melt  the  soul  misfortune  could  not  move. 

[A  Fairy- Bird  sings. 


FANTASMA.  129 

LUCIA. 

Hark  !     Sweeter,  sadder  song  was  never  heard  ! 
Is  it  the  night  thrush,  or  the  mocking-bird  ? 
Is  it  an  oriole,  singing  in  the  dark  ? 

FLORIAN. 

Too  sad  it  is  for  oriole  or  for  lark. 
How  softly  did  the  sweet  sounds  flow  and  fail ! 
Is  it  the  love-desiring  nightingale  ? 

LUCIA. 
Nay,  list !     The  same  sweet  bird  begins  again. 

FLORIAN. 

It  is  no  bird,  for  words  distinct  and  plain 
Are  fitted  to  the  full,  melodious  strain. 

\The  FAIRY-BIRD  $ings.~\ 
How  oft  I've  heard  the  mocking-bird 

His  soul  in  music  pouring, 
When  earth  lay  white  in  trancing  light 

Of  a  silent  night  in  June  ! 

The  tuberose  and  the  bird,  in  sweetness  soaring, 
The  queen  of  night  adoring, 
With  passionate  imploring : 

"  O  thou,  serene  and  lonely  ! 
I  love — I  love  thee  only  ! 
I  love  thee — love  thee  only, 
Thou  sweet  and  silent  moon  !  " 


FANTASMA. 

FLORIAN. 

That  is  the  echo  of  a  German  song ; 
I  knew  and  loved  it  when  I  was  a  child. 
Whatever  sung  this  song,  it  was  no  bird. 

LUCIA. 

It  wears  the  shape,  at  least,  of  a  bright  bird, 
As  fair  as  flitted  through  the  groves  of  Eden. 
It  sits  upon  a  spray  of  that  green  ash 
That  droops  its  tasseled  branches  by  the  stream. 
O  beautiful  beyond  the  birds  of  earth ! 
How  rich  its  plumes  of  emerald  and  gold, 
And  orange-glowing  throat,  like  living  flame  ! 
It's  splendid  train  would  shame  a  peacock's  pride; 
And  on  the  delicate  head  it  bears  a  crest 
Shaped  like  a  lyre  and  shining  like  fine  gold, 
The  delicate  plumelets  trembling  at  a  breath. 

FLORIAN. 
What  is  the  name  of  this  strange,  beautiful  bird  ? 

FANTASMA. 

This  song-bird  once  dwelt  in  your  own  fair  world. 
He  woke  to  life  among  the  mocking-birds  . 
Of  Southern  lands,  but  was  no  mocking-bird. 
Companion  he  had  none  in  all  the  grove, 
But  lonely  ever  was,  and  sometimes  sad. 
He  heard  the  music  of  the  singing-swans 
Borne  on  the  east  winds  from  a  distant  land, 


FA  NT  ASM  A.  131 

And  then  he  sought  companionship  with  them; 
But  they  rejected  the  wild  wanderer. 
And  so  he  flew  away  to  Fairyland, 
Because  he  found  no  friend  in  all  the  world. 
Would  you  behold  the  shape  he  wears  on  earth  ? 
For,  still  the  clay-born  body  must  remain 
On  earth,  till  death  shall  give  it  rest.     Take,  Lucia, 
This  opal  wand  of  mine,  and  with  it  touch 
The  bird's  reflection  in  the  glassy  stream. 
[As  LUCIA,  touches  the  Shadow,  the   bird  disappears,  and  the 
Phantasm  of  a  dark-haired  Youth  arises  fiom  the  water. .] 
Behold,  this  phantom  wears  an  aureole 
Worn  only  by  the  high-souled  and  the  pure. 
Before  the  bird  sang,  he  had  fallen  asleep 
Within  a  garden  which  he  tends  by  day ; 
And  when  he  sleeps,  the  unresting  soul  takes  wing, 
Hasting  to  Fairyland,  where  that  bright  bird 
Receives  it ;  and  my  spirits  love  it  well. 
Eidolon  !     Sing  to  us,  that  these  may  learn 
How  happiness  descends  like  clouds  of  dew 
Upon  the  soul  that  draws  its  bliss  from  heaven. 
Sing  them  the  thought  that  soothed  you  ere  you  slept. 

PHANTASM. 
The  evening  wind  breaks  up  the  light  upon  the  shining  river; 

It  wakes  the  solemn  music  in  the  ever-sounding  pines; 
It  sweeps  across  the  garden,  and  the  bending  roses  quiver, 
And  the  trellised   arbor  trembles  in  its  wreathing  trum 
pet  vines. 


132  FANTASMA. 

And  from  the  boughs  of  shaken  trees,  whereby  the  light  wind 

passes, 
The  dew-drops  and   the   fire-flies   came  down    in  starry 

showers : 

Fire-flies  floating  in  the  air,  and  flashing  from  the  grasses  ; 
Dancing,  darting  everywhere,  and  lighting  up  the  flowers. 

Let  indoor  students  ponder  deep  into  the  midnight  stilly ; 

I  cannot  read  my  lesson  by  the  light  their  lamp  supplies  ; 
The  glimmer  of  a  flame-fly  in  the  white  cup  of  a  lily, 

Is  a  light  that's  better  suited  to  a  poet's  dreaming  eyes. 

I  would  not  barter  places  with  the  trader  or  the  schemer  ; 

I  envy  not  the  stronger  minds  their  honors  or  their  gold ; 
More  useful  they  may  be  than  I,  the  poet  and  the  dreamer : 

I  would  not  take  from  higher  hearts  a  single  gift  they 
hold. 

They  do  not  see  what  shines  for  me  in  blossom  or  in  berry; 

The  mocking-bird  sings  not  for  them  the  song  he  sings 

for  me ; 
The  silver  on  a  poplar  leaf, 1  the  coral  of  a  cherry, 

Is  rich  as  any  mine  of  earth  or  jewel  of  the  sea. 

What  though  no  word  of  love  or  praise  the  world  to  me  may 

render  ? 

The  God  who  heard  the  choral  stars  that  hailed  a  planet's 
birth, 


FANTASMA.  133 

Is  the  same  who  made  the  mocking-bird  and  praised  the  lily's 

splendor ; 
He  will  find  a  use  for  poets  in  a  wider  realm  than  earth. 

O  Father  of  the  universe  !     I  tremble  and  adore  Thee  ! 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  ears  that  hear,  and  for  the  eyes  that 

see  - 

The  pulsing  harmonies  of  earth,  her  beauty  and  her  glory ! 
I  thank  Thee  for  the  gift  of  life — the  soul  that  turns  to 

Thee ! 

[/is  the  Phantasm  fades,  soft  music  from  the  fountain  mingles 
with  the  mocking-bird's  song.      The  scene  closes.] 


SCENE  III.     Another  Part  of  Fairyland,  near  the  Sea.      FAN 
TASMA,  LUCIA,  and  FLORIAN. 

FANTASMA. 
The  hour  is  fast  approaching  when  we  part, 

For  but  a  little  while,  for  ye  will  come 
To  visit  me,  beloved  of  my  heart ! 

To  learn  the  lessons  of  my  fairy  home, 
To  find  deep  truths  in  simple  things,  in  nature  and  in  art. 

Remember,  in  the  world  to  which  ye  go, 

That  good  with  evil  must  contend  awhile ; 

To  love  is  often  better  than  to  know ; 

To  weep  is  sometimes  sweeter  than  to  smile. 

Though  ye  may  be  beguiled,  do  not  beguile ; 
10 


FANTASMA. 

Deceit  is  not  the  parent  of  success  ; 
Achieve  no  victory  by  unworthy  wile ; 

Hypocrisy  knows  naught  of  happiness, 
But,  if  ye  weep  for  others'  woe,  ye  will  not  smile  the  less. 

Your  earth  has  many  hours  of  rest  and  bliss, 

And  her  strength-giving  "fountain  of  the  sun  ;*' 
And  ye,  arising  from  its  sparkling  bath, 

\Vill  seek  no  selfish  joy,  nor  sorrow  shun, 
Nor  from  life's  duties  ever  prove  remiss, 

Nor  lose  your  fairy  gifts,  as  some  have  done, 
Who,  self-sufficing,  wandered  from  the  path, 

And  lost  themselves  in  labyrinths,  where  guiding 
clue  was  none. 

And,  every  full-moon  ye  shall  come  to  me, 

The  mysteries  of  my  fairy  realm  to  learn  ; 

To  dream  within  the  Vale  of  Nephele, 

Where  amaranthine  blooms  like  jewels  burn  ; 

To  drink  nepenthe  from  a  starry  urn ; 

To  read  strange  scrolls  of  long-forgotton  lore  ; 

To  taste  the  fruit  of  immortality, 

Till  Death  the  angel  shall  be  feared  no  more, 

And  Love,  and  Hope,   and  Faith,   beam  brighter  than 
before. 

Behold !     The  woodland  fairies  wait  on  ye, 

The  silver-crowned  sylphs  are  in  the  air, 
The  white  armed  sirens  float  upon  the  sea, 


FANTASMA.  135 

And  from  the  inner  caverns  re-appear 

The  fire-sprites  with  their  jewels  in  their  hair. 

Listen,  beloved,  to  these,  and  their  sweet  counsel 
hear. 

FIRE-SPRITES. 
O  guard  the  lamp  within  your  keeping  placed, 

The  vestal  flame  committed  to  your  care ! — 
Loose  not  the  serpent-zone  about  your  waist ; 

Love  never  had  such  girdle  as  you  wear. 

WOOD-FAYS. 
Do  not  entwine  the  poisoned  ivy-wreath 

Around  the  fadeless  laurels  we  have  given. — : 
The  asphodel  of  life  may  turn  to  death, 

Unless  its  blossoms  drink  the  dews  of  heaven. 

SEA-NYMPHS. 

To  no  false  worship,  no  unworthy  strain, 

Awake  the  burning  chords  of  thy  rich  lyre. — 

Dim  not  the  luster  of  thy  jeweled  chain, 

Nor  sully  with  false  breath  its  fairy  fire. 

SYLPHS. 
O  never  let  the  mist  of  earthly  cloud 

The  heaven-born  splendor  of  your  crowns  obscure  ! 
Seldom  on  mortals  is  such  gift  bestowed, 

And  only  on  the  faithful  and  the  pure. 


136  FANTASMA. 

ALL. 

Go,  happy  twain  !  and  when  the  full-moon  smiles, 
Return  again  to  bless  the  Fairy  Isles. 

[A  fine  Cloud  arises  from  the  East,  and  dissolving  to  a  silver 
Shoiver,  falls  into  the  Sea.] 

FANTASMA. 
These  are  the  gentle  'spirits  of  the  dew, 

Who  spend  their  charmed  nights  upon  the  earth. 

Now,  they  return  into  their  place  of  birth, 
The  sea,  which  ever  doth  their  lives  renew. 

And  yonder,  see,  where  shines  the  golden  East, 
Whose  long,  bright  glance  across  the  ocean  strikes  ! 

Even  now,  the  glowing  splendor  is  increased, 
And  flames  aloft  in  rosy-golden  spikes. 

My  fairy  isles  in  moonlight  ever  lie, 

But  o'er  thine  own  bright  world  the  sun  is  high. 

The  golden  'bridge  is.  waiting  for  your  feet ; 

It  flames  across  the  smooth  and  burnished  sea ; 
Farewell,  awhile,  my  beautiful,  my  sweet ! 

And  in  due  time  ye  shall  return  to  me. 
Go,  now,  in  sweet  obedience  ;  linger  not, 

No'r  backward  glance;  but,  moving  to  the  light, 
Pass  through  the  gateway  by  the  morning  wrought  ! 

And  be  your  path   through  your  own  world  as 

bright ! 

[LuciA  and  FLORIAN  move  Eastward  over  the  Sea,  to  the  Gol 
den  Arch.] 


FANTASMA.  137 

LlGEIA. 

Behold  those  lovely  children  of  the  earth 
Along  the  track  of  morning  lightly  move, 
As  if  their  feet  were  shod  with  fairy  gold ! 

FANTASMA. 

Faith  wings  their  feet,  and  makes  the  pathway  Jirm. 
O  may  they  never  leave  the  shining  way ! 

There  is  a  way  that  seemeth  right, 
Yet  it  leadeth  down  to  death. 

Many  ways  the  wide  world  hath  ; 
Hard  it  is  to  know  the  right ; 

Hard  it  is  to  choose  the  path 
Leading  always  to  the  light. 

CHORUS  OF  FAIRIES. 

Let  the  morning-star  of  Faith 
With  the  dawning  Truth  unite, 
Till  the  kindling  world  arise  slowly  from  engulfing  night. 

FANTASMA. 
There  is  a  wisdom  that  appears  divine, 

So  gracefully  she  wears  the  casque 
That  on  true  Wisdom's  brow  did  shine : 

There  is  a  beauty  in  whose  false  light  bask 
Strong  souls  and  high,  drunk  with  Circean  .wine, 

Who  neither  know  themselves  nor  her ;  nor  ask 
Where  grew  the  blooms  that  in  her  garlands,  twine, 

Nor  what  the  face  beneath  the  beauteous  mask  ; 


138  FANTASMA. 

Nor  at  false  wisdom's  vile  commands  repine, 

But  hasten  to  fulfill  the  unhallowed  task, 
And  life,  and  love,  and  hope,  into  such  hands  resign. 

CHORUS. 

Arise,  O  heaven-born  Beauty  !     in  thy  might ! 
Disarm  the  false  one  of  thy  stolen  light, 
And  shed  o'er  all  the  earth  thy  rays  benign ! 

We  hail  thee,  Beauty,  chosen  bride  of  Truth  ! 

We  love  thee  in  the  rosy  smiles  of  youth, 

And  in  the  silver  light  of  aged  hair  ! 

Earth  to  her  inmost  heart  is  glad  for  thee ! 

Thou  smilest  in  the  green  depths  of  the  sea ; 

Thou  fillest  all  the  azure  realm  of  air ; 

Thou  ever  wert,  and  must  forever  be, 

Child  of  the  universal  King,  the  One  supremely  fair ! 

END  OF  FANTASMA. 


NOTES  TO  FANTASMA. 

PART  I— SCENE  I. 

1.  li  A  whippowil  cries." 

As  this  bird  is  named  from  its  long,  plaintive  cry,  the 
name  should  be  spelled  as  above.  The  sounds  not  "  whip- 
poorwill,"  but  distinctly  "  whip-po-7^/// "  with  emphasis  on 
the  ultimate. 

2.  ' '  We'll  bofe  be  tricked. " 

That  is,  will  be  bewitched ;  will  have  a  spell  cast  over  us. 

SCENE  II. 
/.      "  To  follow  any  Jack-ma- Lanter's  light." 

Such  is  (or  was)  the  negro's  pronunciation  of  Jack-o'- 
Lantern,  which  he  believed  to  be  sometimes  a  merry,  elfish 
boy,  a  good-natured  but  mischievous  Puck ;  but,  more  fre 
quently,  imagined  him  an  old,  dwarfish  man,  preternaturally 
ugly  and  cruel,  having  a  thick  suit  of  crinkled,  bushy  hair. 

2.      "  Same  as  de  fox-fire." 

The  phosphorescent  gleam  of  decayed  wood.     The  "  isin. 


140  FANTASMA. 

glass  "  referred  to  by  Dan  is  the  mica,  glittering  in  specks  on 
the  ground. 

PART  II— SCENE  I. 
7.      ' '  And  the  mocking-bird  and  tender  thrush. "     . 

The  night-thrush,  a  relative  of  the  mock-bird ;  a  sweet 
singer,  but  not  a  mimic;  sings  chiefly  in  the  early  part  of 
night ;  well-known,  of  course,  to  naturalists,  but  very  little 
known  or  appreciated  by  the  people. 

PART  III— SCENE  i. 
7.      "A  canopy  of  grape  and  muscadine" 

The  muscadine  is,  of  course,  a  grape ;  the  Scuppernong 
in  its  wild  state ;  but  so  much  more  beautiful,  as  a  vine,  than 
any  other  grape,  that  it  is  always  spoken  of  as  quite  distinct 
from  wild-grapes  in  general,  some  varieties  of  which  are 
poisonous. 

2.  "  Green  bamboo." 

An  evergreen  brier,  of  which  the  young  shoots  are  very 
slender,  tough,  and  thornless. 

3.  "Ivy-blooms." 

Flowers  of  the  common  kalmia,  a  laurel  called  "wild- 
ivy  "  in  the  South. 

• 

4.  ' '  Mocking-bird  in  moonlight  singing. " 

It  is  well-known  that  mocking-birds  sing  on  the  wing, 
and  are  peculiarly  restless  in  moonlight,  as  if  exhilarated. 


FANTASMA.  141 

5.  "  Woodbine:' 

That  is,  the  wild  coral-honeysuckle. 

6.  "I  found  the  wild  cucumber-tree" 

The  Magnolia  Tripetala,  called,  in  Piedmont  Virginia  and 
Carolina,  marsh-magnolia,  cucumber,  or  umbrella-tree. 

SCENE  IY. 
j.      "  Water- Nymphs  and  Sirens." 

These  (it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say)  are  not  the  classic 
nymphs  or  sirens.  The  names  of  Grecian  myths  have  been 
appropriated,  for  want  of  better,  to  the  use  of  the  phantasms 
of  the  New  World 

PART  IV— SCENE  II. 
i.      "  Let  beauty 's  locks  with  asphodels  be  wound:' 

The  asphodel  here  meant  is  a  Southern  wild  flower,  so 
called :  white,  star-shaped,  fragrant. 

SCENE  III. 
i.      "  Ligeia." 

The  name  of  a  siren  has  been  given  to  the  queen  of  these 
New-World  mermaids  and  naiads  because  of  the  beautiful 
meaning  of  this  musical  name.  No  other  could  be  so  appro 
priately  borne  by  the  queen  of  fairies  presiding  over  seas, 
lakes,  and  all  water-courses. 


142  FANTASMA. 

PART  V.— SCENE  I. 
i.      ' '  Beauty  and  bands. " 

"I  took  unto  me  two  staves;  the  one  I  called  Beauty, 
and  the  other  I  called  Bands;  and  I  fed  the  flock." — Zecha- 
riah,  the  Prophet :  XI  chapter,  VII  verse. 

SCENE  II. 

/.      ' '  The  silver  on  a  poplar-leaf. " 

That  is,  the  silvery  gleam  on  the  under  side  of  leaves  of 
the  tulip-tree,  or  tulip-poplar. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER 


IX  TWO  FARTS. 


PREFACE. 

To  MRS.  L.  R.  M.,  KANSAS  CITY,  Mo. 

i. 

How  many  a  moment  I  owe  thee 
Of  exquisite  rest  and  pure  pleasure  ! 

And  what  can  I  give  in  return  ? 
What  fairy-blessed  gift  can  I  show  thee  ? 
What  genie  will  bring  me  a  treasure 
High-heaped  in  a  long-buried  urn, 
Rare  gems  and  red  gold  beyond  measure  ? 

2. 
Not  gold  thou  desirest,  nor  jewel ; 

My  friendship  is  thine  in  completeness. 

So  naught  can  I  give  thee  but  rhyme  ! 
Yet,  the  spring-beauty's  yearly  renewal 
Is  the  same  in  its  brightness  and  fleetness, 
And  the  birds  of  the  new  summer-time 
Sing  the  old  songs  with  ever-new  sweetness ; 

3- 

So,  take  the  old  words  with  new  meaning  : 
I  can  but  repeat  them  with  changes,— 
"  I  trust,"   "  I  esteem,"  or,    "I  love."- 


146  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

And  accept  this  light  sheaf  of  my  gleaning 
In  fields  beside  lone-lying  granges, 
In  forest  and  fay-haunted  grove, 
And  the  rifts  of  the  mountain's  wild  ranges. 

4- 

A  sheaf?     Call  it,  rather,  a  garland, 
With  grasses  and  wild-growing  lilies 

And  weeds  intermixed  as  they  come  : 
As  a  wanderer  culls  in  a  far  land 

Mementos  that  show  what  his  will  is, 

And  gifts  for  the  loved  ones  at  home, 
That  tell  where  the  clinging  heart  still  is. 

5- 
And  true  love  meets  never  with  scorning, 

Though  small  be  the  gifts  of  its  sending  ; 

Nor  wilt  thou  my  garland  disdain  : 
Although  it  may  lack  the  adorning 
Of  fancy  and  taste   interblending, 

So  carelessly  twined  and  so  plain, — 
Thy  kindness  will  give  it  commending. 
MAY  2,  1879. 


PROEM. 


I. 

The  house  of  Silverlinn  was  large  and  tall, 

With  two  great  wings  spread  out  on  either  side ; 

Old-fashioned,  rambling,  picturesque  withal; 
Its  neighbors'  envy  and  its  owner's  pride  : 

An  oaken  stair  ran  round  the  great  square  hall ; 

Some  rooms  mere  closets ;  others,  long  and  wide ; 

Long  corridors,  and  airy  balconies ; 

Verandas,  opening  on  green  shrubberies. 

II. 
The  ground  in  front  was  level  as  a  floor, 

Being  on  the  very  summit  of  a  hill, 
Shaded  by  noble  tulip  trees  that  bore 

Their  budding  blossoms  bravely;  fairer  still, 
A  great  magnolia  stood  beside  the  door. 

The  rear-ground  fell  by  gentle  slopes,  until 
It  curved  to  meet  the  forest,  on  whose  edge 
The  boundary  fence  was  a  trim  cedar-hedge. 

III. 

Upon  the  left,  the  rolling  lands  were  made 
Into  a  park-like  garden,  trimly  kept ; 


148  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

Where  saucy  squirrels  in  the  oak-trees  played, 
And  swans  across  the  lovely  lakelet  swept, 

White  as  the  lilies  growing  in  the  shade 

Of  willows  that  above  the  waters  wept ; 

And  wild-ducks  preened  their  plumage  in  the  stream 

Where  sportive  trout  flashed  with  a  silver  gleam. 

IV. 

Upon  the  right,  the  picture  well  might  please 
A  painter's  eye,  the  wild,  romantic  scene 

Of  art  and  nature  :  flower-sown  terraces 
Descended  sharply  to  a  deep  ravine, 

A  torrent's  bed ;  and,  rich  in  waving  trees, 

Beyond,  the  mountain  reared  its  wall  of  green, 

A  background  for  the  stream  whose  foamy  flow 

Sprang  from  a  cliff  to  the  ravine  below. 

V. 
From  this  wild  cataract  the  whole  domain 

Was  named,  with  some  propriety ;  for  still 
The  silver-sparkling  waterfall's  refrain 

Awoke  the  mountain  echoes,  clear  and  shrill, 
As,  twisting,  twinkling  like  a  silver  chain, 

It  flashed  and  foamed  along  the  parent-hill, 
Till  its  last  leap,  from  the  great  rocky  wall, 
Changed  it  to  silvery  gauze  in  one  long  fall. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  149 

VI. 

Fronting  this  waterfall,  a  pleasant  room 

Opened  upon  the  terrace :  here,  among 

Papers  and  books,  the  planter  sat,  to  whom 
Did  Silverlinn  and  its  demesnes  belong  ; 

Near  him,  a  guest  in  manhood's  early  bloom  ; 

Smooth  cheek  and  sparkling  eye  declared  him  young 

Yet  in  the  locks  of  wavy  chestnut  lay 

Thick-sprinkled  threads  of  most  untimely  grey. 

VII. 

This  mingling  of  old  age  and  blooming  youth 

Half  marred  the  face  that  nature  formed  so  fair : 

Though  clear  the  dark-grey  eye,  the  forehead  smooth, 
Something  there  was  that  told  of  thought  and  care. 

Half  proud,  half  sad  was  the  expressive  mouth  ; 
A  gentle  voice  he  had,  and  courteous  air ; 

Sharp  were  the  outlines  of  the  pure  Greek  face , 

The  supple  form  had  strength  allied  to  grace. 

VIII. 

The  face  with  recent  illness  now  was  thin, 

For  when  to  this  lone  valley  first  he  came, 

(Where,  on  the  western  slope  stands  Silverlinn), 
A  subtle  fever  wasted  all  his  frame ; 

And  scarcely  had  his  host  the  art  to  win 

The  youth  from  death,  or  the  wild  pulses  tame : 

But  no  plain  countryman  was  Charles  Devane, 

Who  nursed  young  Calvert  thro'  those  days  of  pain, 
n 


150  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

IX. 

Now  he  was  convalescent,  though  still  weak, 
Languid,  and  in  recovering  very  slow  : 

Too  large  the  eyes,  too  pale  the  waxen  cheek, 

Except  when  came  the  bright  but  transient  glow, 

As  momentary  as  the  lightning's  streak, 

Or  blush  of  sunset  fading  from  the  snow. 

But  he  was  stronger,  on  this  April-day, 

For  the  fresh  air  was  balmy-mild  as  May. 

X. 

Devane  the  planter  sat  beside  his  guest, 
Smiling  to  see  the  color  and  the  light 

Rise,  like  the  first  faint  dawning  of  the  East, 

To  the  large,  languid  eye,  and  cheek  so  white. 

Of  all  his  friends,  Devane  had  loved  the  best 

Young  Calvert's  father,  when  their  youth  was  bright. 

Fast  friends  at  school,  their  friendship  closer  grew 

In  all  the  after-time,  their  whole  life  through. 

XI. 

But  Howard  Calvert  dwelt  beside  the  Bay, 

The  blue-waved  Chesapeake's  unresting  tide ; 

While  in  the  shadow  of  the  Blue  Ridge  lay 
Devane's  inheritance,  his  love  and  pride. 

Then  Calvert  went  to  foreign  lands  away ; — 

But  time  nor  distance  could  these  friends  divide. 

The  old  man  opened  heart  and  house  to  one 

Beloved  for  Calvert's  sake — his  only  son. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGEK.  151 

XII. 

Some  sixty  years  the  planter  might  have  seen ; 

Of  figure  slightly  built,  but  somewhat  lo\v  ; 
A  pleasant  voice ;  a  mild  and  winning  mien ; 

Dark,  brilliant  eyes,  beneath  a  calm,  broad  brow; 
Locks  wintry  white,  yet  soft  and  silken  sheen ; 

Long-flowing  beard,  a  drift  of  fleecy  snow  ; 
His  face  was  kindly  touched  by  time  and  care ; 
His  heart  as  fresh  as  his  own  mountain-air. 

XIII. 
Still  talked  Devane,  but,  with  an  absent  mind. 

Calvert  sat  musing  in  his  secret  breast : 
"  How  little  did  I  hope,"  he  thought,  "to  find 

A  second  father,  coming  as  a  guest 
Unknown!     To  him  confessed,  to  be  here  resigned 

The  secret  grief  which  has  so  long  oppressed, 
Almost  destroyed.     But,  yet — can  I  depend 
Even  on  his  faith,  the  true  and  trusted  friend 

XIV. 

"Of  my  dead  parents?     True,  and  worthy  trust; 

Faithful,  and  yet — but  human,  nevertheless ! 
And,  should  he  cast  me  off,  it  were  but  just, 

Nor  could  he  know  my  utter  wretchedness. 
The  good  sometimes  forget  that  they  are  dust. 

Could  one  so  pure  sin's  lightest  torture  guess? 
Can  I,  so  dark  a  sinner,  hope  to  win 
Pity  from  one  who  justly  hates  the  sin  ? 


152  THE  LIGHT-BRINGEK. 

XV. 

"  In  silence  I  must  bear  my  heavy  load. 

I  will  retain  the  trust  of  this  great  heart ! 
Conscience  may  lash  me,  and  remorse  may  goad — 

I  will  not  shun,  nor  seek  to  salve  the  smart : 
But  I  will  walk  alone  on  this  dark  road : 

.My  only  comforter  must  be  my  art." 
He  sighed  aloud,  and  starting,  met  the  eyes 
Of  his  kind  host,  fixed  on  him  with  surprise. 

XVI. 
"Are  you  in  pain,  my  son?"   the  old  man  asked. 

Calvert,  with  some  embarrassment  said  "No!" 
And,  by  an  effort  of  the  strong  will,  masked 

His  features  in  tranquillity;  but,  though 
His  shrewd  old  host  was  not  deceived,  he  tasked 

His  skill  to  make  the  conversation  flow, 
When  suddenly  these  words  from  Calvert  burst : 
"By  whom,  in  my  delirium,  was  I  nursed?" 

XVII. 

"By  me  and  little  Eulis,  till  so  wild 

You  grew,  my  niece  was  frightened  :  in  her  stead 
A  trusty  servant  came.     I  see,  my  child, 

You  are  uneasy,  lest  you  may  have  said 
Something  you  might  regret ;  "  the  old  man  smiled, 

As  Calvert  started,  flushing  burning-red. 
' '  But  be  at  ease !     Wild,  '  whirling  words '  you  spoke ; 
Nothing  coherent,  till  your  reason  woke." 


THE  LIGHT-BKINGER.  153 

XVII. 

Then  Edwin  Calvert  took  the  planter's  hand, 

So  strong,  so  skillful,  yet  so  delicate. 
"  The  life  that  you  have  saved,  you  may  command," 

He  said.      "The  stranger  whose  unhappy  fate 
Still  kept  him  wandering  from  land  to  land 

Will  bless  the  day  that  saw  him  pass  your  gate, 
True  friend,  so  strong,   so  tender  and  benign — 
My  father's  friend,  and  oh!  how  truly  mine!" 

XIX. 

"You  told  me  you  loved  pictures,"  said  Devane; 

"  And  as  most  pleasures  must  be  still  denied, 
Perhaps  these  drawings  you  may  like  to  scan  : 

See,  here  is  Silverlinn,  my  special  pride, 
Sketched  by  a  wandering  painter,  a  young  man 

Resembling  you."     The  smiling  youth  replied; 
"I,  also,  am  a  landscape-painter:  you, 
Who  love  the  art,  should  love  the  artist,  too." 

XX. 

"  Even  as  I  love  myself,"  the  planter  said, 
Smiling.      "I  was  a  painter  in  my  youth, 

And  dreamed  of  rivaling  the  glorious  dead, 
The  Masters;  but  I  did  not  find  it  smooth, 

The  road  to  fame !     Both  hope  and  fancy  fled: 
I  ceased  to  look  for  light  or  seek  for  truth 

Save  that  God  gave  his  children.     Life,  to  me, 

Is  merely  waiting  for  the  life  to  be. 


154  -THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

XXI. 

"  Of  all  the  gifts  this  world  has  to  bestow, 

I  sought  Fame  only  :  wealth  I  did  not  crave, 

And  love  I  scarcely  heeded ;  even  so, 

Pleasure  was  spurned  :     I  was  ambition's  slave. 

But  GOD,  the  Maker,  HE  must  surely  know 

What  are  the  fittest  gifts  that  we  should  have  : 

Though  that  for  which  1  panted  was  denied, 

He  gave  me  love,  and  wealth,  and  all  beside. 

XXII. 

' '  I  grieved,  on  seeing  others  take  the  place 

For  which  I  strove ;  those  who  did  not  possess 

My  talent  or  my  energy,  found  grace  : 

It  was  decreed — the  greater  serve  the  less, 

And  careless  runners  passed  me  in  the  race. 
But  when  I  saw  the  sacred  laurels  press 

Unworthy  brows  amid  the  world's  acclaim, 

I  sought  no  more  the  venal  smiles  of  fame. 

XXIII. 

"  But  my  one  talent — I  still  keep  it  bright. 

That  is  not  buried  which  is  not  displayed, 
Nor  is  it  lost,  though  hidden  from  the  light, 

As  pallid  fruits  that  ripen  in  the  shade. 
And  I  have  learned  to  love  my  art  aright, 

As  a  kind  household  spirit,  giving  aid 
In  time  of  trouble,  soothing  all  my  pain, 
And  cheering  me  to  take  up  life  again. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  155 

XXIV. 

"  I  tell  you  this,  my  son,  because  I  feel 

That  you  have  suffered ;  hmt>,  I  do  not  know, 

Nor  wish  to  know  the  grief  you  would  conceal : 
But  my  own  disappointed  life  will  show, 

That,  like  the  temper  of  the  finest  steel, 

True  strength,  true  manhood,  from  submission  flow. 

If  peace  and  true  success  you  would  secure, 

First  gain,  my  son,  the  power  to  endure." 

XXV. 

Calvert  looked  up  with  wild  and  startled  eyes, 

Half  questioning,  half  grateful ;  but  remained 

Silent,  as  if,  beyond  the  mere  surprise, 

There  was  a  something  in  the  words  that  pained. 

Devane  spoke  lightly  :     "As  you  may  surmise, 
I  am  a  painter,  still ;  and,  now  you've, gained 

The  strength  to  walk  so  far,  you'll  smile  to  see 

The  studio  that  is  worth  a  world  to  me." 

XXVI. 

They  went  through  hall  and  passage  merrily, 

Till,  at  a  door,  the  planter  paused,  and  said: 

"  Be  not  surprised  at  anything  you  see, 

And  though  you  meet  a  monster,  feel  no  dread; 

For  many  curious  things  herein  there  be !  " 

Laughing  he  spoke,  nodding  his  fine  grey  head  ; 

Then  opened   wide  the  door :  its  threshold  crossed, 

The  youth  stood,  in  amaze  and  horror  lost. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

XXVII. 

The  apartment  was  in  shape  an  octagon, 

Lighted  by  one  great  window  overhead  : 

Four  of  the  sides  were  snowy-white,  whereon 

Were  painted  roses,  wreathed  and  garlanded ; 

The  other  sides  were  painted  every  one 

Like  windows,  with  fine  curtains  overspread ; 

And  through  these  seeming  casements  did  the  eye 

Catch  lovely  views  of  mountain  scenery. 

XXVIII. 

These  four  fine  landscapes,  painted  on  the  wall, 

Were  alternated  with  the  other  four, 
The  white-and-rose-decked  sides  of  that  strange  hall : 

But  Calvert,  standing  in  the  open  door, 
Gazed  on  an  object  startling  more  than  all — 

A  monster  serpent,  coiled  upon  the  floor, 
His  oval  rings  piled  upward,  fold  on  fold, 
A  mass  of  mingling  tints  and  gleams  of  gold. 

XXIX. 

This  startling  object,  in  the  centre  laid 
Of  the  apartment,  let  it  be  confessed, 

Was  not  a  snake,  at  all,  but  cushions  made 
Of  silk  and  velvet,  fitting  to  be  pressed 

By  some  good  genius,  into  sleep  betrayed, 
Or  fair  sultana  in  her  hour  of  rest : 

And  from  the  serpent's  high  crowned  head  there  swung 

A  basket,  whence  long  leaves  and  blossoms  hung. 


THE  LIGHT-BKINGER.  157 

XXX. 

Upon  this  couch  was  laid  the  sleeping  form 
Of  a  young  girl,  with  blossoms  garlanded, 

Bright  as  the  Indian  Cupid:2  soft  and  warm 

Glowed  on  her  velvet  cheek  the  dusky  red  ; 

Her  drooping  head  lay  on  a  rounded  arm. 

O'er  which  the  black  and  silky  ringlets  spread; 

The  crimson  bodice  seemed  to  sink  and  swell 

When  to  her  breath  her  bosom  rose  and  fell. 

XXXI. 

This  fairy-beauty  was  in  age  thirteen; 

The  darling  and  the  plague  of  Silverlinn  : 
An  orphan  girl,  Devane  had  stood  between 

The  world  and  this  lone  child :  once  taken  in 
To  heart  and  home,  she  ruled  there,  like  a  queen, 

Yet  all  her  subjects'  love  contrived  to  win. 
Calvert  had  heard  of  Eulis,  and  had  heard 
Eulis,  herself,  sing  like  a  mocking-bird, 

XXXII. 

In  the  long  halls,  and  from  the  garden-bowers 
Beneath  his  window,  while  so  ill  he  lay; 

Her  fresh,  young  voice,  heard  in  those  languid  hours, 
Had  often  charmed  his  weariness  away  : 

And  Eulis  sometimes  sent  him  gathered  flowers  ; 
But  he  had  never  seen  her  till  this  day, 

When,  like  the  Eastern  god,  with  flower-crowned  head, 

Sleeping  she  lay  upon  her  serpent  bed. 


158  THE  LIGHT-BKINGER. 

XXXIII. 

This  was  a  striking  picture,  strange  but  fair; 

Yet  horror  seemed  the  chief  emotion  raised 
In  Calvert's  bosom — horror  and  despair, 

As,  for  one  moment,  fixedly  he  gazed, 
With  fear  and  loathing  blent  in  one  wild  stare; 

Then  fell,  as  lightning  struck.     Devane,  amazed, 
Called  out  for  help :  up  sprang  the  sleeping  child, 
And  thither  ran  the  servants,  scared  and  wild. 

XXXIV. 

"  He  is  not  dead,  but  swooning;"  said  Devane. — 
The  servants  bore  young  Calvert  to  his  bed, 

From  which,  indeed,  he  did  not  rise -again 
Until  a  week  of  suffering  had  fled  : 

Then  sent  he  for  his  host :     "  I  would  explain 
The  causes  of  my  strange  relapse  ;  "  he  said. 

"  To  you  my  whole  strange  life  will  I  unfold, 

My  father's  friend  !     To  you  shall  all  be  told  !  " 

XXXV. 

In  vain  the  pknter  begged  him  to  defer 

His  story,  till  his  strength  should  quite  return. 

"  Kind  friend,  seek  not  the  wretched  to  deter 
From  his  fixed  purpose.      Haply,  I  may  earn 

Your  sympathy,  your  pity  :     I  will  err 

No  more  through  shame !  My  whole  life  you  shall  learn. 

Shut  fast-  the  door,  that  none  may  enter  in, 

\Vhile  I  confess  my  sorrow  and  my  sin. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  159 

XXXVI. 

"You  wondered  at  my  weakness,  I  presume, 
In  swooning  on  the  threshold  of  your  hall, 

So  strangely  decorated ;  but  that  room 
So  vividly  and  strangely  did  recall 

An  Eastern  dwelling,  where  I  sealed  my  doom — 
But  I  anticipate.     You  shall  know  all! 

Listen,  with  patience  :     You  behold  in  me 

The  hero  of  a  true  '  Soul's  Tragedy.'  " 


PART  I. 


CANTO  I. 

I. 

You  know  the  story  of  my  childish  years, 

For  most  were  spent,  in  pleasure,  at  your  side. 

My  childhood  knew  much  more  of  smiles  than  tears ; 
Noted  I  was  for  frankness  and  for  pride ; 

And  I  was  wiser  than  my  childish  peers, 

A  wayward  elf,  whose  will  was  hard  to  guide : 

I  lived  two  lives— one,  wild,  and  frank,  and  free ; 

The  other,  shut  in  dreams  and  mystery. 

II. 

My  father  was  of  Catholic  descent ; 

Of  coldest  Puritan  blood  my  mother  came  : 
And  in  their  son  were  both  these  natures  blent : 

Mine  was  the  melting  heart,  the  soul  of  flame  ; 
And  mine,  too,  was  the  calm,  clear  reason,  meant 

To  guide  the  soul  and  keep  the  passions  tame  : 
And  ere  I  knew  the  word  philosophy, 
I  looked  on  life  with  philosophic  eye. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  161 

III. 

Strong  was  the  brain;  but  all  too  highly  strung, 
Too  finely  tuned  the  delicate  chords  of  soul. 

The  mind  was  old,  while  heart  and  soul  were  young, 
And  reason  warred  with  want  of  self-control ; 

Almost  I  was  like  him  by  poets  sung, 

Who  first  the  sacred  fire  ethereal  stole, 

So  was  I  vulture-torn  and  passion-riven, 

Hanging  midway  betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

IV. 
And  yet,  my  soul  was  young,  as  I  have  said: 

Mine  was  the  frank  heart  of  a  gleeful  child  ; 
A  heart  that  ever  fought  against  the  head, 

In  its  free  impulse,  innocent,  though  wild. 
Though  much  I  pondered,  and  much  more  I  read, 

Faith  was  not  yet  by  subtlety  beguiled, 
Though  Stygian  streams  embittered  learning's  well, 
And  nightshade  grew  beside  the  asphodel. 

V. 
The  Muses  life's  divine  elixir  poured  : 

Great  Shakspere1  laid  his  hand  upon  my  heart, 
And  Homer  struck  the  long-resounding  chord  : 

And  England's  matchless  Egotist,  whose  art 
Re-set  the  gems  Antiquity  had  stored, 

And  made  the  angels  play  a  mortal  part, 
On  the  high  altar  hands  presumptuously  laid, 
And  entered  in  the  Holiest,  undismayed ; — 


i6a  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

VI. 

He,  whose  magnificent  audacity 

Has  blinded  thousands,  to  the  present  hour ; 
Many  who  fear  their  Maker  cannot  see 

How  much  this  mortal's  verse  has  dared  to  lower 
Even  man's  conception  of  the  ETERNAL  THREE  : 

With  brow  unbent  before  the  awful  Power, 
He  stalked  with  echoing  step  and  changeless  cheek, 
And  taught  the  Eternal  GOD  like  man  to  speak. 

VII. 

I  not  enumerate  the  laureled  throng 

Whose  nectar-mantling  chalices  I  drained; 

But  the  sweet  singer  of  a  modern  song 

Allured  me  most,  and  held  my  fancy  chained  : 

To  him  the  prophet's  woe  did  well  belong,2 

Denounced  against  a  soul  so  deeply  stained, 

A  mind  so  sin-distraught,  it  understood 

The  good  for  evil,  evil  for  the  good. 

VIII. 

The  bitter  he  called  sweet,  the  darkness,  light ; 

And  dashed  himself  against  the  Almighty  shield, 
The  finite  striving  with  the  Infinite ; 

Sin,  raving-mad,  against  all  goodness  steeled  : 
With  what  compassion  must  Immortal  Might 

Have  viewed  that  writhing  soul,  to  sorrow  sealed- 
A  soul  that  into  darkness  strayed  so  far 
The  Snake  he  worshiped  for  the  Morning-Star ! 


THE  LIGHT-RKINGER.  163 

IX. 

Such  was  he,  but  not  such  to  me  he  seemed, 

For  then  I  scarcely  thought  an  angel  higher 

Than  he  whose  song  so  heavenly-sweet  I  deemed, 
Who  swept  with  delicate  hand  the  full-toned  lyre; 

Its  sentient  chords  like  rays  of  morning  beamed, 
All  wreathed  about  with  unterrestial  fire  : 

Alas  !     No  coal  from  God's  pure  altar  came 

To  touch  those  lips  or  gild  that  lyre- with  flame  ! 

X. 

He  was  my  childhood's  idol.     I  not  knew, 
While  eagerly  the  golden  fruit  I  tasted, 

From  what  foul  roots  that  tree  ambrosial  grew  : 

'Full  many  an  hour  beneath  its  shade  I  wasted, 

Nor  knew  its  rich  perfume  and  honey-dew 

All  wholesome  fruit  whatever  shrunk  and  blasted. 

Well  was  my  folly  paid  in  future  pain, 

In  sickened  soul,  and  truth-distorting  brain. 

XI. 

My  youth  was  passed  in  Europe,  as  you  know ; 

In  England  part,  and  part  in  Germany. 
I  had  three  friends:     no  matter  where  or  how 

I  met  them — they  were  all  in  all  to  me. 
One  was  a  German,  but  the  other  two 

Were  English-born :     we,  four  in  unity, 
Were  members  of  a  secret  brotherhood, 
Whose  object  was  "  the  universal  good:  " 


1 64  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

XII. 

Meaning  thereby,  the  turning  upside-down 

And  wrong-side-out,  of  all  things,  high  and  low  : 

Labor  should  rest,  and  wear  a  silken  gown ; 
Taxes  should  cease,  and  purses  overflow  ; 

There  should  be  no  such  word  as  king  or  crown ; 
No  priest  should  live  to  prophesy  of  woe ; 

Churches  should  be  pulled  down,  and  all  should  be 

Sweet  Freedom  and  divine  Equality. 

XIII. 

Arnstein  was  ultra-atheist  in  his  views : 

To  Comte,  and  then  to  Schopenhauer  inclined, 

He   as  his  metaphysics  grew  abstruse, 

Left  all  men  and  all  systems  far  behind. 

"  Philosophers  and  priests  alike  confuse;" 

He  said  :     "The  lamp  of  man  is  his  own  mind; 

Who  walks  in  others'  paths  goes  more  astray 

Than  he  who  wanders  where  there  is  no  way." 

XIV. 

McCartney  was  Darwinian,  for  he  had 
A  mind  with  speculation  all  a-stir. 

His  mind  than  Arnstein's  was  of  lower  grade 
But  brighter :  a  light-souled  philosopher, 

He  welcomed  Darwin's  theory  :3    "Very  glad," 
He  said,    "  with  science  always  to  concur." 

A  soul  ?     McCartney  felt  no  need  of  one, 

And,  for  himself,  was  certain  he  had  none. 


THE  LIGHT-BR1NGEK.  165 

XV. 

Shirley  was  last  and  youngest  of  our  band, 

And,  of  the  four,  at  once  the  worst  and  best. 

He  had  a  poet's  eye,  a  painter's  hand; 

His  genius  could  all  trivial  things  invest 

With  a  sweet  glamour  as  of  fairy-land ; 

He  seemed  a  wanderer  from  the  stars ;  a  guest 

Of  this  dim  world,  where  he  remained  awhile, 

To  dazzle,  to  instruct,  and  to  beguile. 

XVI. 

His  features  would  have  been  effeminate, 

But  for  the  smoldering  fire  in  his  dark  eye. 

To  me,  he  seemed  a  spirit  good  and  great 
As  ever  walked  beneath  an  alien  sky; 

I  served  him  with  devotion  passionate, 

An  idol,  wrapped  about  with  mystery. 

They  called  him  "atheist," — but  to  me  'twas  known 

He  had  some  strange  religion  of  his  own. 

XVII. 
'Tis  certain,  he  possessed  strange  powers  and  arts; 

The  wills  of  other  men  could  bend  and  sway, 
Reading  the  very  secrets  of  their  hearts  : 

And  oft  he  would  sit  poring  night  and  day, 
O'er  strange,  old  maps,  and  long-forgotten  charts, 

Or  scrolls,  writ  in  a  language  passed  away. 
He  stood  high  in  the  "Mystic  Brotherhood," 

And  aimed,  like  them,  at  universal  good. 
12 


166  THE  LIGHT-BKINGER. 

XVIII. 
For  me — I  speak  in  all  humility — 

I  was  an  earnest  seeker  for  the  truth, 
No  set  supporter  of  a  theory, 

Nor  License  woo'd  for  liberty  :  in  sooth, 
The  florid  charms  of  license  pleased  not  me, 

Too  much  in  earnest  for  the  faults  of  youth : 
And,  Renan-like,  I  thought  The  TRUTH  to  find 
By  the  pale  glow-worm  of  a  human  mind. 

XIX. 

Whence  had  I  come,  and  whither  should  I  go? 

Was  there  an  omnipresent  Deity 
To  whom  the  small  and  great  are  like  in  show, 

Before  the  Infinite  fading  equally? 
A  Spirit,  filling  space,  yet  stooping  low 

To  shield  the  smallest  creature — even  me  ! 
Was  He  a  Father,  good  as  infinite, 
Or  a  dread  form  of  overwhelming  Might  ? 

XX. 

Was  He  all-wise,  all  loving,  all  foreseeing  ? 

Or  built  He  in  blind  Power  the  universe, 
Which  had  outgrown  his  grasp,  and,  ever-fleeing 

Down  the  dark  future,  grew  from  bad  to  worse, 
Envolving  tendencies  which  the  great  Being 

Who  made,  could  not  control?  Was  this  the  curse, 
Or  something  darker,  which  was  withering 
The  earth  with  sin,  and  blasting  everything  ? 


THE  LIGHT-BRIXGER.  167 

XXI. 

If  God  has  been  offended,  how  can  He, 

The  Infinite,  with  us  be  reconciled? 
Can  He  be  reached,  at  all,  by  prayer  or  plea  ? 

Has  He  abandoned  earth  to  the  wide  wild 
Of  chance,  so  that  each  soul  must  ever  be 

A  Fatherless,  though  an  immortal  child  ? 
Such  questions,  and  far  more,  in  agony 
I  asked,  and  asked — but  none  could  make  reply  : 

XXII. 

At  least,  no  answer  with  conviction  fraught. 

I  had  refused  my  parents'  humble  creed, 
And  though  from  pious  priests  at   first   I.  sought 

Guidance,  they  gave  me  little  help,  indeed; 
I  could  not  comprehend  the  faith  they  taught — 

For  God  alone  can  give  the  light  we  need 
In  seeking  him.     Thus,  baffled  every  way, 
I  wandered,  and  in  darkness  went  astray. 

XXIII. 

But  my  three  friends  and  I  were  young  and  bright, 

Soaring  aloft  on  hope's  Icarian  wings : 
We  called  ourselves  the  "Seekers  of  the  Light;" 

"Lovers  of  Truth ;"  and  other  pleasant  things. 
Each  thought  himself  the  true,  invincible  knight, 

Able  to  sweep  the  earth  of  priests  and  kings  ; 
Each  to  dethrone  the  King  of  Heaven  was  bent, 
And  set  up  Demogorgon  president. 


1 68  THE  LIGHT-BR1NGER. 

XXIV. 

While  I  was  in  this  most  exalted  mood, 

With  Arnstein  and  with  Shirley  I  was  sent 

Upon  a  mission  by  the  Brotherhood. 

Long  afterward,  I  learned  the  full  intent 

Of  that  strange  mission.     Shirley  understood 
Fully,  and  from  the  first,  wherefore  we  went. 

We  traveled  into  Asia;  here  and  there 

Stopping, — for  what,   I  did  not  know  nor  care. 

XXV. 

The  wondrous  East  awoke  unwonted  awe 

In  my  young  mind,  and  other  things  to  me 

Were  nothing;  though  unusual  signs  I  saw 
In  my  companions,  of  some  mystery. 

But  in  our  Brotherhood  there  was  a  law 
Requiring  neophytes  to  hear  and  see 

Nothing,  where  his  superiors  were  concerned : 

Silence  was  the  first  lesson  that  we  learned. 

XXVI. 

At  that  time,  I  was  but  a  neophyte : 

Arnstein  was  older,  and  by  many  a  grade 

Higher  in  office;  but  our  leader  quite 

Threw  Arnstein  and  all  others  into  shade. 

Shirley  was  now  so  powerful,  he  might 

Be  called  the  right-hand  of  the  Order's  Head; 

Without  apparent  effort  he  controlled 

All  who  were  thrown  with  him,  both  young  and  old. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  169 

XXVII. 
In  truth,  despite  our  ' '  free-and-equal "  creed, 

There  were  degrees  in  our  fraternal  band  : 
No  autocrat  is  more  supreme,  indeed, 

Than  was  the  unknown  Leader  in  command 
Of  this  Free  Order ;  nor  could  power  exceed 

That  wielded  by  the  invisible  Chief,  whose  hand 
Directed  all  our  movements,  great  or  small : 
Known  but  to  few,  his  power  was  felt  by  all. 

XXVIII. 

Within  this  order,  at  its  very  core, 

There  was  another,  wheel  within  a  wheel ; 

A  truly  secret  band,  of  which  no  more 

Was  known,  than  that  it  was.     Since  to  reveal 

Was  not  more  criminal  than  to  explore 

The  mysteries  our  leaders  would  conceal, 

This  inner  power  was  known  to  very  few, 

And  these  but  guessed,  nor  half  believed  it  true. 

XXIX. 

And  yet  this  inner-order  was  the  pith, 

The  very  heart  of  our  society, 
Though  generally  regarded  as  a  myth, 

Even  by  the  few  who  guessed  that  it  might  be : 
An  unshorn  Samson,  neither  cord  nor  withe 

Could  bind  this  monster,  safe  in  secrecy. 
Its  influence  spread  from  land  to  land,  by  stealth — 
Like  a  slow  poison,  undermining  health. 


170  THE  LIGHT-BRING ER. 

XXX. 

Nothing  of  this  I  dreamed,  for,  at  the  first, 
I  was  a  dupe,  one  in  a  blind-led  host 

Of  self-made  victims ;  and  their  creed  accurst 

I  thought  divine, — it  was  my  pride  and  boast: 

For  I  had  that  which  makes  men  best   or  worst — 
Unflinching  Faith,  which  never  counts  the  cost. 

Not  easy  of  belief,  a  creed  received 

Clung  to  my  mind  as  soul  to  body  cleaved. 

XXXI. 

Shirley  was  one  of  the  superior  few 

Forming  this  subtle  and  mysterious  ring 

That  swayed  at  will  the  uninitiate  crew, 

The  great  majority  who  owned  no  king, 

Nor  law,  nor  God;  enthusiasts,  who  nor  knew 
Nor  dreamed  the  Brotherhood  was  anything 

But  a  great  power  for  making  all  men  free, 

And  leveling  things  to  strict  equality 

XXXII. 

We  reached,  in  our  erratic  pilgrimage, 

Damascus,  and  for  some  time  there  remained. 

There  were  so  many  objects  to  engage 
Attention,  that  awhile  I  well  retained 

My  curious  interest  in  a  certain  sage 

Called  Selim  of  Damascus,  who  had  gained 

More  wisdom  than  all  men,  alive  or  dead, 

Save  Solomon,  himself:  so  rumor  said. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  171 

XXXIII. 

My  comrades  bade  me  not  to  seek  this  man, 
Though  daily  at  his  house  they  visited. 

Arnstein  grew  melancholy,  and  began 

To  elude  my  questions,  with  such  signs  of  dread, 

That  my  roused  curiosity  out-ran 

Discretion ;  and  to  Shirley  thus  I  said  : 

"  This  great  magician  I  demand  to  see, 

This  Solomon  of  the  Nineteenth  Century." 

XXXIV. 

Shirley  upon  me  fixed  his  glowing  eye, 

That  seldom  failed  to  conquer  or  to  hold 

The  object  of  its  solemn  scrutiny. 

"Be  not,"  he  said,  "  so  reckless  or  so  bold; 

For  to  his  presence  you  will  soon  draw  nigh, 

Above  whose  head  a  hundred  years  have  rolled. 

This  very  day  it  was  arranged,  indeed, 

That  you  into  his  presence  I  should  lead, —  " 

XXXV. 

Here  I  broke  in,  half  angry,  half  in  sport: 

"  'Lead  me  into  his  presence!'  On  my  word, 

'Tis  Solomon,  indeed,  with  all  his  court!" 

My  scoffing  jarred  upon  some  tender  chord, 

For  Shirley's  eyes  flashed  fire,  and,  turning  short, 
"Audacious!"  he  began, — when  we  both  heard 

A  voice,  as  of  some  spirit  in  the  air, 

Low,  soft,  and  most  unearthly  sweet — "  Beware!" 


172  THE  LIGHT.BRINGER. 

XXXVI. 

Amazed  I  stood,  and  like  a  coward  shook, 
And  fear,  the  most  ungovernable  thrilled 

My  very  heart.     Although  the  placid  look 

Of  Shirley  now  returned,  his  fingers  chilled 

With  deadly  cold  my  hand,  which  straight  he  took, 
And  kindly  said  :   "By  this  I  know  'tis  willed 

That  you  become  initiate  to-day : 

May  the  Star  shed  on  you  his  mildest  ray ! " 

XXXVII. 

I  yielded,  for  my  very  soul  was  numb 

With  some  strange  influence,  what,  I  do  not  know; 
And,  led  as  one  grown  sightless,  deaf,  and  dumb, 

Silent  I  walked  between  the  silent  two : 
For  Arnstein  at  our  leader's  call  had  come, 

Eager  to  see  the  neophyte  go  through 
The  initiation  which  had  power  to  shake 
His  iron  frame,  as  breezes  move  the  brake. 

XXXVIII. 

The  sage's  house,  like  many  another  one 

In  that  old  city,  had  an  outer  wall, 
And  courts  inclosed  but  open  to  the  sun, 

And  many  a  gallery,  and  dim,  cool  hall. 
The  doors  were  open  to  our  steps,  but  none 

Appeared  to  welcome  us ;  deserted,  all ! 
But  for  the  lulling  sound  and  silver  gleam 
Of  playing  fountains,  silent  as  a  dream. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  173 

XXXIX. 

Through  many  still  apartments  I  was  led, 

Until  we  reached  a  door,  where  watching  stood 

A  negro  boy,  most  lightly  garmented 
In  tunic  of  fine  silk  as  red  as  blood. 

Except  a  crimson  cap  upon  his  head, 

And  the  silk  tunic,  he  was  wholly  nude ; 

Jet-black,  an  ebon  statue ;  lithe  and  tall, 

With  rounded  limbs  and  shape  symmetrical. 

XL. 
This  negro  fixed  his  bright  black  eyes  on  me, 

And,  in  good  English — "Welcome,  sir!  "  he  cried. 
He  struck  the  door;  a  burst  of  melody 

Arose  mysteriously,  and  failed,  and  died : 
The  door  unclosed  :  behind  it,  we  could  see 

Rich  hangings ;  which  were  lightly  swept  aside, 
And  Selim  stood  before  us.     Every  one 
Knelt  down,  as  to  a  despot  on  his  throne  : 

XL  I. 

All  but  myself.     Shirley,  the  high  and  proud, 

The  hard,  cool  Arnstein,  and  the  page,  knelt  there ; 

All,  prostrate  in  devotion,  meekly  bowed 

As  Christians  they  derided  kneel  in  prayer. 

"  Arise,  my  sons  !  "  said  Selim  ;  clear,  not  loud, 
And  sweet  exceedingly  his  accents  were. 

He,  too,  spoke  English,  and  the  homely  sound 

Through  the  pleased  ear  into  my  spirit  wound. 


174  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

XLII. 

Why  he  dwelt  in  Damascus,  why  the  name 
Of  Selim,  I  could  not,  and  cannot  tell : 

His  true  name  was  not  known,  nor  whence  he  came. 
Both  hair  and  beard  in  waves  of  silver  fell, 

And  crimson  garments  draped  his  stately  frame, 
Suiting  his  regal  mien  and  motions  well. 

Beneath  the  snowy  eye-brows,  light-grey  eyes 

Sparkled  like  keen,  cold  stars  in  winter  skies. 

XL  II  I. 

His  staff,  surmounted  by  a  silver  ball, 

Was  glittering-smooth  and  black  as  ebony  ; 

About  his  head  an  oak-leaf  coronal, 

Twined  with  green  mistletoe,  most  strange  to  see  ! 

As  if  a  Druid  in  that  Eastern  hall 

Had  risen  to  some  spell  of  gramarye: 

Such  was  my  passing  fancy — and  I  caught 

The  sage's  eye,  as  though  he  read  my  thought. 

X  L  I  V. 
"  My  son,"  he  said,  "  all  countries  are  my  own 

All  ages,  future,  present,  past,  are  mine ; 
I  represent  all  that  the  earth  has  known 

Of  wisdom,  art,  and  mystery  divine. 
A  stronger  seal  than  that  of  Solomon 

Shall  press  thy  forehead  with  its  mystic  sign. 
Young  neophyte!  this  hand,  which  you  behold, 
The  veil  of  Isis  drew,  in  days  of  old  ! 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  173 

XLV. 

"  Kneel!  that  the  mystic  seal  may  press  thy  brow." 

"  Rash  ingrate,  kneel !  "  cried  my  companions  each. 

To  whom  I  answered :     "I  have  ceased  to  bow, 
Even  to  my  father's  God.     And  ye,  who  teach 

Hatred  to  gods  and  tyrants— do  you  now 
Adore  a  mortal  ?     Never  act  or  speech 

Of  worship  my  free  manhood  shall  degrade  ! 

I  serve  no  idols  human  thought  has  made." 

XL  VI. 
"  Calvert !"  cried  Shirley,  in  a  voice  that  pained 

My  heart  with  its  deep  tone  of  agony ; 
"  Calvert !  one  hour  has  all  too  quickly  waned, — 

O  let  no  more  such  precious  moments  flee  ! 
Never,  while  ages  roll,  can  be  regained, 

Once  lost,  this  priceless  opportunity. 
Kneel !     We  will  bow  with  you,  and  all  engage 
In  homage  to  the  justly-angered  sage." 

X  L  V 1 1. 

Raising  my  figure  to  its  hight,  I  stood, 

Saying  :     "  Kneel  when  it  pleases  you,  and  where  ! 
But  you  seek  freedom  by  the  strangest  road 

That  ever  led  to  bondage  unaware. 
/  fear  no  mortal,  and  I  serve  no  God : 

To  none  will  I  prefer  a  faithless  prayer  !" 
So  speaking,  while  deep  anger  swelled  my  heart, 
And  baffled  hope,  I  turned  me  to  depart. 


I76  THE  LIGHT-B RINGER. 

XL  VII  I. 

"  Tarry,  my  son  !  "  said  Selim  :     Sweet  the  sound, 
Gifted  with  magic  softness  that  low  tone  ; 

About  my  heart  the  sweet,  strange  accents  wound, 
Holding  me  still  when  I  would  fain  have  gone. 

'"'  'Tis  true,  young  man,  that  every  soul  has  found 
An  idol  for  its  worship :  you  alone, 

Sublime  and  self  sufficient,  dare  avow 

You  serve  no  God,  nor  to  a  mortal  bow. 

XLIX. 

"  But  go  not  hence  in  the  belief  that  I, 

The  old  man  Selim,  was  adored  by  these. 

I  am  the  high-priest  of  their  deity — 

( I  use  these  terms,  that  you  with  greater  ease 

May  grasp  my  meaning). — See  this  mirror  high! 
Its  shadow-pictures  vary  as  I  please  : 

Look,  thou,  and  learn !     For  in  its  depth  shall  glow 

The  shadow-types  of  gods  to  which  ye  bow  ! 

L. 
' '  The  god  of  any  man  is  what  he  loves  ; 

The  ruling  passion,  which  doth  shape  and  mold 
His  character,  and  all  his  nature  moves. 

But,  see,  the  shadows  from  the  glass  have  rolled- 

Lo!     Arnstein's  god." 

As  one  whom  it  behooves 

Neither  to  be  too  timid  nor  too  bold, 
Arnstein  approached  with  quiet  dignity, 
Belied  by  pallid  cheek  and  eager  eye. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  177 

LI. 

Upon  the  mirror's  bright  expanse  was  shown 
A  picture  most  grotesque  and  mystical : 

Arnstein's  phantasm  sat  on  a  lofty  throne, 

While  pigmy  human  shapes  before  him  fall, 

Or  dance,  or  strut,  or  swagger  :     he  alone, 

Holding  the  strings  that  moved  the  puppets  all. 

Keenly  observing  them,  he  pulled  the  strings, 

Experimenting  on  the  pigmy  things  : 

LI  I. 

Much  as  a  naturalist  might  scrutinize 

His  captive  beetles — with  deep  interest, 

But  nothing  of  affection  in  his  eyes, 

Far  less  of  fellow-feeling  in  his  breast. — 

"  Is  Sc//the  god  to  whom  I  sacrifice  ?  " 

Cried  Arnstein  ;    and  his  flushing  face  expressed 

No  anger,  but  astonishment  and  shame. 

In  Selim's  softest  tones  the  answer  came. 

LI  1 1. 

"It  is  a  grand  desire,  my  son,  to  rule 

By  intellect, — your  one  desire  is  this  ; 
A  wish  intense,  that  fills  your  spirit  full ; 

To  gain  it,  is  your  highest  dream  of  bliss : 
For  this,  you  make  humanity  your  school ; 

This  sole,  intense  desire  your  idol  is, 
In  serving  which,  you  serve  and  bow  before 
The  one  great  Master  whom  we  all  adore." 


1 78  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

LIV. 

Sudden,  the  crowned  phantasm  disappeared, 
With  all  its  puppets.     On  the  mirror's  face 

An  inner  room  of  some  old  temple  reared 

Its  arched  and  vaulted  roof  in  shadowy  space, 

Wherein  Egyptian  Isis  was  revered; 

For  there  her  veiled  shrine  held  solemn,  place, 

And  there,  with  upward  face  enrapt  and  pale, 

Shirley's  eidolon  knelt  before  the  Veil. 

LV. 

"  My  son,"  said  Selim,  turning  then  to  me, 

"  Would  you  not  see  the  idol  you  revere?" 

To  whom  I  answered  boldly:     "  I  am  free  ! 

1  have  no  god. — "  Then  to  the  mirror  clear 

He  spoke  :     "  The  god  of  his  idolatry 

Let  now  upon  your  smooth  expanse  appear!  " 

Straightway,  the  temple  vanished, — and  there  stood 

A  woman,  with  bare  feet  all  bathed  in  blood, 

LVI. 

As  she  had  walked  upon  a  battle-field, 

Or  on  a  scaffold  where  much  blood  was  shed. 

On  her  left  arm  she  bore  a  brazen  shield  ; 

Her  foot  was  planted  on  a  monarch's  head, 

And  in  her  gory  right  hand  did  she  wield 
A  lance  with  cruel  point  all  bloody-red; 

A  scarlet  cap  she  wore,  a  flaming  tiar 

That  crowned  her  streaming  tresses  as  with  fire. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  179 

LVII. 
I  knew  this  "goddess" — ay,  her  very  name 

I  had  adored,  almost  from  infancy ; 
And,  strange  to  say,  I  felt  no  sense  of  shame, 

Though  forced  to  see  my  own  idolatry : 
I  thought  it  was  a  grand  thing  to  proclaim 

My  bondage  as  the  slave  of  Liberty. 
I  knelt — and  Selim  stamped  upon  my  brow 
That  broad  and  burning  seal:     I  feel  it  now! 

LVII  I. 

The  sage's  voice  aroused  me,  clear  and  sweet : 
"Arise,  my  son!     Nor  measure  by  the  past 

Thy  future  life,  with  every  joy  replete, — 

Arnstein,  go  you  with  Addo,  and  in  haste 

Perform  the  task  assigned.     I  will  retreat 

With  Shirley  and  this  youth — our  own,  at  last !  " 

He  drew  aside  the  hangings,  and  we  three 

Entered  that  room  of  triple  secrecy. 

LIX. 

Your  studio  and  that  Oriental  room 

Are  not  unlike  :  each  is  an  octagon, 
Each  has  a  ceiling-casement  to  illume 

Walls  windowless,  with  curtains  flowing  down; 
And  both  are  brightened  by  the  lavish  bloom 

Of  many-colored  garlands,  winding  on 
From  wall  to  wall,  rich  as  a  woodland  bower 
Built  for  a  fairy  in  her  sleeping-hour. 


i8o  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

LX. 

But,  though  the  rooms  are  like  on  a  first  view, 
Yet,  in  particulars  they  differ  much. 

The  window  here  is  white,  but  that  was  blue, 

Faint,  silvery ;  whitening  with  its  pallid  touch 

All  objects  to  a  weird,  unearthly  hue : 

Not  having  seen,  you  scarce  could  fancy  such. 

The  flowers  upon  your  walls  are  painted  there, 

But  those  were  living  vines,  trained  thus  with  care. 

LXI. 

The  fleecy  curtains,  whose  white  beauty  fell 
Adown  the  flowery  walls  at  intervals, 

Each  shaded,  not  a  picture  but  a  cell, 

Or  niched  recess,  thus  sunken  in  the  walls. 

What  every  niche  contained  I  could  not  tell; 

Some  were  concealed  behind  voluminous  falls 

Of  filmy  lace,  while  others  half  disclose 

Cushions  and  pillows  fitting  for  repose. 

LXI  I. 

A  living  fountain  in  the  center  threw 

High  in  the  air  a  double  jet  of  spray — 

Spray  feathery-fine  as  mist,  and  clear  as  dew, 
Shining  like  hoar-frost  in  the  morning's  ray. 

These  jets,  that  made  the  sacred  number  two, 

Kept  fresh  a  wreath  that  round  the  fountain  lay, 

A  gorgeous  garland,  thick  and  long,  where  shone 

The  richest  blossoms  of  the  central  zone. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  181 

LXIII. 

The  air  was  filled  with  perfumes,  subtle,  soft, 
And  of  a  strange,  intoxicating  power; 

An  odor,  as  of  musk  and  arnber,  oft 

Half-dizzied  me :  it  came  not  from  a  flower, 

(I  thought),  but  from  the  jets  that  streamed  aloft, 
Returning  always  in  a  feathery  shower : 

Come  whence  it  might,  so  strong  was  this  perfume, 

It  seemed  to  hang  in  clouds  about  the  room. 

LXIV. 

They  made  me  rest  upon  a  silken  heap 

Of  cushions  :  Selim  held  to  me  a  cup, 
A  marvelous  shell,  brought  from  the  Indian  deep, 

Holding  rich  wine;  whereof  I  did  but  sup, 
When  both  mine  eyes  grew  dim  with  tranced  sleep : 

This  partially  passed  off,  and  I  looked  up. 
With  senses  supernaturally  clear. 
Yet  wholly  helpless,  nor  devoid  of  fear. 

LXV. 

I  trembled  :  ringing  noises  in  my  head 

Hummed  faintly  as  a  distant  swarm  of  bees : 

Across  mine  eyes  soft  lights  flashed  rosy-red; 

Against  each  other  smote  my  trembling  knees, 

Striving  to  stand:  back  on  the  cushioned  bed 
I  sank;  and  felt  the  creeping  torpor  freeze 

My  loathing  heart,  my  vainly-struggling  brain, 

And  glide  with  subtle  speed  through  every  vein. 

13 


182  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

LX  VI. 

Yet  heard  I  Selim's  accents — very  low, 

But  painfully  distinct  each  measured  tone : 

"Shirley,  take  heed!  this  man  will  work  us  woe! 
He  ia  not,  and  may  never  be,  our  own ! " 

Then  Shirley's  voice :   "  I  will  not  let  him  go: 
Not  for  a  world!   He  shall  be  ours  alone! " 

"Such  strength  of  soul — of  will,"  the  sage  replied, 

"Is  well  worth  winning  to  our  Leader's  side." 

LXVII. 
"  McCartney  is  too  light  for  such  employ; 

But  Arnstein  and  young  Calvert  I  design," 
(Said  Shirley's  voice),  "our  agents  to  destroy 

The  sceptered  tyrants  we  have  doomed.      Be  mine 
The  task  to  watch  and  to  control  this  boy, 

Till  by  his  agency  we  end  the  line 
Of  Northern  autocrats  :  to  Arnstein's  hand 
Be  given  the  ruler  of  the  Southern  land." 

L  X  V  1 1 1. 

"My  son!  it  were  far  better  to  allow 

The  uninitiate  to  perform  these  deeds ; 

Be  it  an  infidel  who  strikes  the  blow 

By  which  a  system  falls,  a  tyrant  bleeds : 

We  worship  the  Light-bringing  Star,  who  now 

Breaks  through  all  clouds  and  on  to  glory  leads : 

The  time  approaches  when  both  earth  and  sky 

Shall  fall  before  the  Prince  of  Liberty ! 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  183 

LXIX. 

"Then,  free  religion's  sweet  and  simple  rites 

Shall  take  the  place  of  church  and  tyrant  priest, 

Who  now  all  joy  denies,  all  freedom  blights: 

And  when  the  oppressive  system  shall  have  ceased, 

Then,  Man  shall  know  free  Nature's  full  delights, 
And  nations  from  their  kings  be  all  released 

But  Liberty's  first  step  must  be  through  blood — 

Let  not  the  initiate  hand  be  thus  imbrued. 

LXX. 

"We  plan  the  work  that  should  be  done  by  those 
Who  worship  nothing — simple  dupes  of  schools 

They  fathom  not:  nor  will  they  dare  disclose 
The  secrets  of  the  Order,  whose  strict  rules 

Doom  treachery  to  death.     Should  freedom's  foes 
Escape,  and  seize  our  agents — let  the  tools 

And  servants  of  the  Order's  outer-band 

Be  sacrificed — not  those  who  understand. 

LXX  I. 
"  Beware  of  treason !     Dark  and  strange  to  me 

The  immediate  future,  veiled  from  my  sight : 
Nothing  is  clear  as  it  was  wont  to  be. 

That  soul  is  struggling  with  immortal  might! 
Yes,  he,  the  acknowledged  slave  of  Liberty, 

Rebels  against  the  source  of  Freedom's  light ! 
Dread  Powers  against  each  other  are  arrayed: 
Wait  we — till  there  is  call  for  human  aid.'' 


184  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

LXXII. 

"Not  so,  my  father!"  Shirley's  answer  came. 

"Take  off  this  charm,  and  leave  him  to  my  care! 
Awake  him  now — and  by  that  sacred  flame, 

Our  bright  perpetual  symbol,  I  will  swear 
This  towering  soul  shall,  like  a  falcon  tame, 

Stoop  to  my  call  and  join  me  anywhere ! 
Show  him  the  plain,  straight  path  to  Liberty, — 
He  follows,  though  it  leads  through  fire  and  sea !  " 

LXXIII. 

"  He  walks  the  path  that  youthful  dreamers  tread, 
Bay-shadowed,  and  made  soft  by  flowery  sod : 

Children  with  dreams  and  flatteries  must  be  fed, — 
'  Take  of  this  fruit  and  thou  shalt  be  a  god ! ' 

He  eats — and  lo,  the  path,  indeed,  is  red, 

But  not  w4ith  flowers;  his  scepter  is  a  rod! 

This  soul  may  be — nay,  will  be  won,  I  trust, 

But  not  by  fruits  of  Eden,  filled  with  dust. 

L  X  X  I  V. 

"This  atheistic  folly  lasts  not  long, 

Nor  untaught  dreams  of  perfect  Liberty, 

In  souls  like  his,  so  gentle,  yet  so  strong  : 
He  had  soon  fallen  to  some  idolatry, 

As  others  have — some  code  of  right  and  wrong; 
But,  now,  man's  natural  religion',  free 

As  thought  and  wide  as  Nature,  shall  control 

His  spirit,  and  our  Leader  guide  the  whole." 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  185 

LXXV. 

"  But,  master,"  answered  Shirley,  hushed  and  low, 
In  the  still  tone  of  hatred  blent  with  awe ; 

"  There  is  a  conflict?"—  "It  is  even  so  !  " 

"May  not  the  OTHER  POWER,  the  Adverse  Law, 

May  HE  not  conquer,  to  our  overthrow  ?" — 

A  third  voice  uttered  one  low  word:   "  Withdraw!" 

In  gliding  tones,  so  more  than  earthly  sweet, 

My  torpid  heart  awoke  and  feebly  beat. 

LXXV  I. 

I  was  alone.     Shirley  had  disappeared, 

And  with  him  went  the  sage.     I  was  alone. 

The  fountain's  gentle  rain  was  all  I  heard, 
Soothing  me  with  its  airy  monotone. 

My  soul  grew  strong,  and,  like  an  untamed  bird, 
Longed  from  its  earthly  prison  to  be  gone, 

Till  all  self-consciousness  was  lost,  a  change 

Came  o'er  that  mystic  room,  so  startling-strange. 

LXXV  1 1. 

The  flowery  room  became  a  forest  wide  ; 

The  fountain  slowly  broadened  to  a  lake  ; 
The  spray  to  misty  clouds  was  magnified, 

Through  which  the  moon  seemed  tenderly  to  break ; 
The  gorgeous  wreath  that  decked  the  fountain-side 

Changed  to  the  semblance  of  a  splendid  snake, 
A  marvel  of  strange  beauty  :  fold  on  fold 
Gleaming  with  tints  of  emerald  and  gold ; 


i86  THE  L1GHT-BRINGER. 

LXXVIII. 

With  purple,  glittering  jet,  and  ruby  flecked ; 

With  sapphire  streaked,  and  glancing  opal  light : 
The  emerald  of  his  lustrous  throat  was  specked 

With  spangling  gold  that  sparkled  starry-bright. 
He  reared  on  high  his  head,  superbly  decked 

With  sphered  flame,  that  burned  intensely  white, 
And,  like  a  comet  double-trained  it  sent 
Two  streams  of  light  toward  the  firmament. 

L  X  X I  X. 

The  Serpent  fixed  his  eyes  on  mine  :  no  jewel 
Nor  star  shot  ever  such  a  potent  ray ; 

So  strong  they  seemed,  yet  nothing  hard  nor  cruel, 
Moving  my  nature  with  resistless  sway : 

My  spirit  yielded  to  the  soft  subdual ; 

Like  music  rose  and  fell  my  pulses'  play, 

Beneath  the  star-like  darkness  of  the  eyes, 

Unfathomed  depths  of  subtlest  mysteries. 

LXXX. 

They  were  no  serpent's  eyes  that  drew  me  so; 

They  held  the  light  of  immortality. 
At  times,  with  some  unutterable  woe, 

They  gleamed  and  shifted  like  a  troubled  sea, 
Until  my  own  with  grief  would  overflow  : 

Then  flashed  the  Serpent's  eyes  triumphantly, 
Immortal  beauty  sparkling  in  their  light, 
Presaging  deathless  pleasures  infinite. 


THE  LIGHT-B RINGER.  187 

LXXXI. 

And  still  I  gazed,  while  nearer  crept  the  Snake, 
Till  at  my  feet  he  stayed  ;  and,  fold  on  fold, 

He  laid  himself  in  oval  coils,  to  make 

A  couch  like  that  whereof  the  East  has  told, 

When  the  drowned  earth  was  liquid  as  a  lake, 
For  over  her  the  shoreless  ocean  rolled  : 

So  coiled  the  starry  Snake,  and  richly  shone 

As  jewels  heaped  to  form  an  Eastern  throne. 

LXXXI  I. 

Then,  I,  drawn  onward  by  the  powerful  spell, 
Like  Vishnu  on  the  Serpent  did  recline ; 

And  saw  the  lake,  dilating,  heave  and  swell, 

And  lash  the  trembling  shore  with  angry  brine. 

The  forest  fled — and  deepest  shadow  fell, 
Illumined  by  the  supernatural  shine 

Of  the  great  stas  that  crowned  the  Serpent's  crest ; 

And  we  alone  lived  on  the  ocean's  breast : 

LXXXIII. 

That  vast  and  surging  ocean,  most  appalling 

In  its  blank,  borderless  immensity. 
I  shrieked  aloud  in  horror,  wildly  calling 

On  the  immortal  Snake  w.ho  carried  me, 
Lightly  upon  the  billows  rising,  falling, 

The  sole,  the  star-crowned  sovereign  of  the  sea  : 
"  Ah,  whither,  mighty  spirit !  dost  thou  go  ?  " 
And  straight  the  Serpent  answered,  soft  and  low  ; 


1 88  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

L  X  X  X  I  V. 

In  tones  more  gliding-smooth  than  music's  o\vn  : 
"  Fear  nothing  !     I  will  bear  thee  o'er  the  tide. 

Thou  shalt  learn  mysteries  to  man  unknown 

Since  Egypt's  knowledge  from  the  earth  has  died! 

Thou  shalt  behold  a  world  long  dead  and  gone ; 
Ay,  and  the  birth  of  thine  own  world  beside  : 

And  this,  if  thou  but  will  it  so,  shall  be 

The  first  of  many  wonders  thou  shalt  see. 

L  X  X  X  V. 
"  Thou  shalt  be  wiser  than  earth's  wisest  sage 

Since  the  fair  planet  was  on  nothing  hung  ; 
For  thou  thy  thirst  of  knowledge  shalt  assuage 

With  every  drop  of  wisdom  Time  has  wrung 
From  eons  past — each  wonder-working  age 

Since  time  himself  first  into  being  sprung, 
For  to  thy  eager  eyes  will  I  unroll 
The  pages  of  a  spirit-written  scroll. 

L  X  X  X  V  I. 

' '  But,  first,  I  tell  thee,  (for  thou  couldst  not  see 
Nor  understand  those  nameless  mysteries 

Coeval  with  unborn  Eternity), 

That  the  great  Origin  of  earth  and  skies 

'  In  the  beginning '  made  all  things  :  for  thee 
So  much  must,  at  the  present  time,  suffice. 

Then  to  the  elements  spake  their  Great  Cause  : 

"  LIGHT,  BE!  "    her  LORD  commanded — and  light  was. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  189 

L  XXX  VI  I. 

"Thou  shall  first  see  the  pre-Adamic  earth,4 

The  beautiful  and  starry  child  of  light ; 
And  thou  shall  see  the  light  thai  gave  il  birth, 

The  slellar  dust,  whose  living  sparks  unite 
To  form  a  glorious  planet,  better  worth 

The  loving  care  of  the  Elernal  Might 
Than  ten  such  worlds  as  thine,  — though  never  one 
Now  fairer  makes  its  course  around  the  sun. 

L  X  X  X  V  1 1 1. 

' '  The  shade  of  elder  earth  shall  now  appear, 

A  beauteous  planet,  long  in  ruins  laid ; 
A  mighty  orb,  as  excellently  clear 

As  any  star  with  glories  yet  to  fade. 
Ah,  morning-star,  light-bringer,  whose  full  sphere 

In  beauly  and  in  glory  was  arrayed  ! 
The  home  of  those  whose  immortality 
Thou  couldst  nol  share — nor  could  they  die  with  thee !  " 

L  X  X  X I  X. 

Thai  wide,  wild  sea  slrelched  far  on  every  side. 

Ils  vasl  expanse  in  dislanl  darkness  losl ; 
II  was  so  unimaginably  wide 

Thai  human  ihoughl  ils  bounds  could  nol  have  crossed ; 
But,  now,  in  Ihe  dim  dislance,  I  descried 

A  rising  misl,  pale  as  a  glimmering  ghosl, 
Slarl  from  Ihe  sea :  warmer,,  and  yel  more  warm 
II  grew — a  nebulous  cloud  without  a  form  : 


190  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

xc. 

A  cloud  that  ever  round  its  center  curled, 

Still  wheeling,  changing,  circling,  resting  not, 

Till  it  took  spheric  shape,  and  ceaseless  whirled 
With  dizzying  speed  around  the  central  spot, 

Until  a  new-born  star,  a  perfect  world, 

Was  thus  from  darkness  and  from  chaos  brought 

Then,  for  a  space,  its  glory  was  withdrawn 

Behind  the  gathering  clouds  that  veiled  its  dawn. 

XCI. 

Soon,  I  beheld. — I  will  not  madly  seek 
That  unimagined  planet  to  portray, 

Though  like  our  earth,  with  sea  and  mountain-peak, 
And  blissful  valleys  that  between  them  lay ; 

Yet  human  language  is  too  poor  and  weak 

To  paint  our  own  sweet  world,  far  less  array 

That  planet  in  its  robe  of  beauty,  worn 

When  first  it  rose,  the  fairest  star  of  morn. 

X  C  I  I. 

Inhabitants  it  had,  sublimer  far 

Than  pencil  uninspired  could  hope  to  paint ; 
Shapes  of  ethereal  beauty,  such  as  are 

The  visions  of  enraptured  seer  or  saint ; 
Spirits  enrobed  in  splendor,  like  a  star, 

Divinely  fair,  and  spotless  of  all  taint ; 
Light  is  no  clearer  than  their  claritude, 
Perfectly  pure,  and  beautiful,  and  good. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  191 

XCIII. 

Blind  grew  mine  eyes  with  such  expressive  light ; 

And  when  I  looked  again,  there  seemed  to  be 
Some  sinister  and  subtle  change  :  less  bright 

The  planet  shone,  while  over  land  and  sea 
A  shadow  crept,  as  of  impending  night : 

Discordant  sounds  were  in  the  melody 

That  still  arose. Scarce  was  the  planet  seen, 

So  thick,  so  fast  the  shadow  grew  between 

X  C  I  V. 

Still  darker  and  more  dense  the  shadow  grew, 

With  dusky  wings  outspread  and  covering  all. 

Lost  was  the  lovely  planet  to  the  view, 
Shrouded  as  with  an  everlasting  pall ; 

Till  naught  was  there  except  the  awful  hue 

Of  rolling  darkness,  gathered  like  a  ball — 

As  black  as  if  the  darkness  of  despair 

And  woe  unutterable  hovered  there. 

xcv. 

Again  the  Serpent's  voice  was  at  mine  ear : 
"  This  shadow  is  a  type.     I  cannot  show 

The  cause  of  this  dire  change,  nor  make  appear 
The  fullness  of  this  never-uttered  woe. 

It  is  not  for  a  mortal  ear  to  hear, 

Nor  eye  perceive,  nor  finite  spirit  know. 

Already  quails  thy  spirit,  overcast 

By  the  mere  shadow  of  this  long-dead  Past." 


192  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

XCVI. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  there  came  a  direful  sound, 
A  crash,  a  roar — as  if  that  moment  rent 

A  world  from  her  foundations,  and  unbound 
Her  elements,  in  wild  confusion  blent: 

Space  trembled,  and  the  planets  in  their  round 
Grew  pale',  as  far  and  wide  the  horror  went. 

That  sound  swept  by  me  like  the  voice  of  heil — 

And  into  nothingness  my  spirit  fell. 

XCVII. 

The  soul-enticing  accents  of  the  Snake 

Aroused  me  from  that  deep  and  dizzy  swoon  : 

' '  Too-fragile  spirit,  from  thy  trance  awake  ! 

Thou  shall  behold  thine  own  fair  world  full  soon 

Her  place  among  the  starry  myriads  take, 

Linked  to  a  sister-world,  the  mystic  moon." 

I  looked,  and  saw  the  world  so  fair  of  late 

All  dark  and  desolate  and  devastate. 

XCVIII 
Then  said  the  Serpent:   "These  are  shadows,  all. 

There  is  no  symbol  for  the  Voice  Divine, 
Which  from  chaotic  ruin  did  recall 

Order  and  beauty,  till  that  earth  of  thine, 
(As  fair  and  good  as  that  thou  sawest  fall, 

Though  far  less  mighty),  rose  to  sing  and  shine 
Among  her  radiant  sisters  of  the  morn, 
The  stars  who  sang  for  joy  that  earth  was  born."5 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  i  93 

XCIX. 

I  looked.     The  brooding  darkness  fled,  revealing 
The  earth  as  she  appeared  on  her  fifth  day, 

Upon  her  axis  wheeling,  ever  wheeling  :_ 
And  lovely  was  the  interlacing  play 

Of  light  and  shade  o'er  her  green  bosom  stealing, 
And  soft  her  sister-planet's  silver  ray, 

While  sweet,  unbidden  harmonies  unite 

From  both,  as  colors  blend  in  purest  white. 

C. 

Along  the  hills,  with  azure  beauty  crowned, 

Far-glancing  streams,  like  veins  of  light,  were  seen ; 

A  thousand  rills  and  rivers  glittering  wound 

Through  flowery  vales  of  never-dying  green, 

Still  flowing,  flowing  with  harmonious  sound 

To  meet  the  seas  that  tossed  in  purple  sheen 

Their  never-resting  waves,  that,  shining,  sang 

To  the  great  Source  of  light  from  whom  they  sprang. 

CI. 

There  was  no  lack  of  living  creatures,  fair 

As  their  bright  world:  in  myriad  shapes,  the  seas 

They  filled  with  rainbow  beauty,  and  the  air 
Vibrated  to  aerial  harmonies, 

And  to  the  countless  wings  sustaining  there 

Bright  birds  that  moved  to  their  own  melodies; 

While  roamed  at  will,  upon  the  fragrant  land, 

Unnumbered  creatures,  beautiful  and  grand. 


194  THE  L1GHT-BRINGER. 

Gil. 

For  the  young  earth  was  excellently  fair, 

Adorned  with  every  grace  and  every  good. 

There  rose  from  her  a  voice  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Though  yet  upon  her  vernal  soil  had  stood 

No  form  of  man ;  and  joy  was  everywhere. 

Then  said  the  Snake:   "  Let  it  be  nearer  viewed. 

The  landscape  spread  before  thy  charmed  sight 

Is  Paradise,  the  Garden  of  Delight." 

cm. 

While  yet  the  soft  tones  lingered  in  mine  ear, 

My  spirit  shrank,  with  a  sharp  sense  of  pain; 

A  shadowy  horror,  mightier  far  than  fear, 

That  stung  to  life  my  tranced  heart  and  brain. 

The  Serpent's  voice  I  could  no  longer  hear, 

Yet  strength  was  palsied,  and  I  strove  in  vain 

To  break  from  that  dark,  overwhelming  Dread, 

That  bound  and  held  me  helpless  as  the  dead. 

CIV. 

Again,  all  things  were  nothingness  to  me : 

And  then,  as  sudden  as  the  lightning's  stroke, 

My  spirit  sprang  to  life,  and  I  was  free ! 

As  if  some  binding  chain  that  moment  broke : 

Fiercely  my  pulses  bea%  and  blindingly 

Mine  eyes  throbbed,  as  my  brain  once  more  awoke. 

Alone  in  that  strange  room  I  stood  again, 

Spray-sprinkled  by  the  fountain's  misty  rain. 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  195 

CV. 

Alone,  for  aught  of  human  presence  nigh : — 
Yet,  near  me  shone  a  faint,  angelic  form, 

Who  fixed  on  me  her  mild  and  steadfast  eye, 
Profoundly  sad,  reproachful,  yet  so  warm 

With  mother-love!     Up-pointing  to  the  sky, 
The  pale  and  silent  shape,  with  lifted  arm, 

A  moment  stood,  then  faded  from  my  view. 

It  was  my  mother's  shade,  I  saw,  I  knew ! 

CVI. 

I  felt  the  truth  through  all  my  trembling  soul : 

She,  whom  I  left  on  earth,  was  now  in  heaven  ! 

Some  pitying  saint  had  burst  the  Snake's  control, 
And  light  to  the  lost  soul  once  more  was  given. 

As  the  pure  spirit  passed,  there  softly  stole 

Through  the  dusk  room,  a  sound  like  rain  at  even, — 
Thrice-mournful  sounds,  that  grew  till  all  the  air 
Was  full  of  low  lamenting  and  despair. 

CVI  I. 

The  conscious  air,  with  viewless  beings  filled,  • 
To  sounds  of  weeping,  sighing  and  lament, 

And  flitting  wave  of  restless  wings,  was  thrilled  : 
And  still  the  mourning  spirits  came  and  went, 

Unseen,  but  heard  and  felt :  the  air  was  stilled, 

But  the  sad  sounds  their  mournful  music  blent, 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 

While  spirit-tones,  of  heavenly  purity 

And  sweetness,  spoke  in  question  and  reply  : 

FIRST    VOICE. 
Why  mourn  ye  so  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

For  human  woe, 

For  a  deeply-erring  soul  ! 
We  weep  for  human  sin  and  woe  ; 

For  days  of  dread  that  nearer  roll, 
When  fire  shall  glow,  and  blood  shall  flow, 
And  the  good,  and  the  bad,  and  the  high  and  the  low 
Shall  weep,  nor  any  comfort  know  ; 
Shall  mourn — as  we  for  coming  woe 

In  the  days  of  death  and  dole  ! 

FIRST    VOICE. 

And  will  the  LORD  of  Worlds  leave  one  so  fair 
To  perish  in  her  sin  and  her  despair  ? 
The  turbulent,  ungoverned  multitude 
Have  cast  God's  altars  down — yet  has  not  He 
His  people,  who  have  never  bowed  the  knee 
To  the  world's  god  of  anarchy  and  blood  ? 
Will  he  forsake  the  nations  utterly  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

They  drink  the  poisoned  draught  themselves  distilled ; 
They  walk  the  chosen  way  their  hearts  have  willed, 


THE  LIGHT-BRINGER.  19? 

The  doomed  and  downward  way  forever  trod 
By  all  the  nations  who  forget  their  God  ! 

FIRST    VOICE. 
And  must  the  heavy  curse  so  surely  fall  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Near  and  more  near  the  days  of  ruin  crawl, 
Like  lapping  waves  that  undermine  a  wall, 

Till  they  shall  overflow, 
And  sweep  the  desolated  world  with  woe  ! 

4 

END  OF  PART  FIRST. 


14 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIGHT-BRINGER. 


.      PROEM. 

1.  I.      "  The  house  of  Silverlinn  was  large  and  tall." 

The  description  of  this  country-seat  is  not  overdrawn. 
The  real  residence  which  suggested  the  imaginary  Silverlinn 
had  a  terraced  garden  containing  an  acre  of  hyacinths,  of 
which  plant  the  owner  was  very"  fond. 

2 .  XXX.      ' '  Bright  as  the  Indian  Cupid. ' ' 

The  East  Indian  Cupid, — he  who  floated  down  the 
Ganges  on  a  blue  lotus. 

CANTO  I. 

i.      V.      "  Shaksperc. " 

Thus  the  poet  most  frequently  spelled  his  own  name, and 
(in  the  writer's  opinion)  it  is  preferable  to  the  modern  S/iak- 
speare.  At  all  events,  where  the  orthography  is  disputed, 
each  admirer  of  the  great  poet  may  choose  his  own  way  of 
spelling  the  revered  name. 


THE  LIGHT-B RINGER.  199 

2.  VII.      "To  him  the  Prophet 's  woe  did  well  belong." 

"  Woe  unto  them  that  call  evil  good,  and  good  evil;  that 
put  darkness  for  light,  and  light  for  darkness;  that  put  bitter 
for  sweet,  and  sweet  for  bitter." — Isaiah  ch.  v;  v.  20. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  unhappy  poet,  to  whom  this 
line  refers, — whose  genius  was  equaled,  if  not  surpassed  by  his 
anti-morality — should  be  admired  and  praised  by  the  atheistic 
or  the  irreligious  part  of  humanity ;  but  when  professed  Chris 
tians  defend,  and  "eminent"  clergymen  eulogize  him,  the 
spectacle  is  simply  astounding. 

3.  XIV.      "He  welcomed  Darwiris  theory" 

The  author,  who  knows  nothing  of  "  Darwin's  theory,'7 
must  not  be  understood  as  asserting  that  this  philosopher  does 
(or  does  not)  believe  in  the  existence  of  the  soul :  the  words 
given  to  the  imaginary  McCartney  are  those  of  a  professed  fol 
lower  of  Darwin — but  the  disciples  of  modern  philosophers 
do  not  always  comprehend  their  meaning. 

4.  LXXXVII .      "  Thou  sha It  first  see  the  pre-Adamic  earth."1 
This  is  the  Serpent  speaking ;  not  the  author. 

5 .  X  C  V 1 1 1 .      "  For  joy  that  earth  was  born. " 

This  theory,  that  the  planet  we  inhabit  was  made  of  the 
fragments  of  a  former  world,  is  okl  and  well  known :  but  it 
must  not  be  supposed  the  writer's  belief.  The  Serpent,  as  the 
agent  of  the  Evil  Principle,  would  subtly  re-echo  the  youth's 
own  speculations;  and  present  skeptical  ideas  to  him  in  the 


200  THE  LIGHT-BR1NGER. 

most  seductive  and  even  semi-religious  light.  For,  those  who 
know  least  of  poor  humanity  cannot  fail  to  see,  if  they  observe 
at  all,  that  the  great  Tempter  varies  his  modes  of  attack  to 
suit  every  soul:  of  late  days,  frequently  taking  the  guise  of 
"honest  doubt,"  "inquiry  after  truth,"  etc.;  the  temptation 
to  which  all  thinking  souls  seem  (in  these  "perilous  times") 
to  be  subjected,  at  some  period  of  life. 


MARCELLA: 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


:•-#-:: 


Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm. 

Nor  question  much, 
This  subtile  wreath  of  hair  about  mine  arm — 

The  mystery,  the  sign,  thou  must  not  touch. 

— CRASHAW. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I. 

In  eighteen-hundred-seventy-six — the  year 
To  Freedom  and  America  so  dear — 
A  lady  died,  at  Florence,  in  the  prime 
Of  spring,  and  of  her  own  life's  summer-time. 

They  called  her  "  gentle  stranger;  "  "  kind  unknown  ;  " 

She  was  a  widow,  rich,  but  quite  alone. 

Society  she  shunned,  but  to  her  door 

Came  daily  throngs  of  hungry,  half-clad  poor. 

Freely,  unquestioning,  her  aid  was  given 

To  just  and  unjust,  like  the  rains  of  heaven. 

Alone  the  lady  lived,  and  lonely  died. 

II. 

Those  who  arrayed  her  for  the  grave  descried 
A  closely- fitting  sleeve  of  cloth-of-gold — 
So  first  it  seemed — about  the  left  arm  rolled; 
But,  when  they  looked  more  narrowly,  they  found 
It  was  a  long  and  curious  bracelet,  wound 
In  spiral  bands,  and  woven  of  bright  hair, 
The  gold  threads  stained  and  darkened,  here  and  there, 


204  MARC  ELL  A. 

As  if  it  had  been  dipped  in  blood.     This  charm 
From  wrist  to  shoulder  covered  the  whole  arm. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  hair  could  be 
Of  such  bright  length  and  silken  quality  ; 
Most  strange — yet  so  it  was. 

They  left  it  there, 

Twined  round  the  arm,  that  cherished  wreath  of  hair, 
And  when  the  lady  in  her  tomb  was  laid, 
They  buried  with  her  there  the  golden  braid. 

III. 

But,  what,  then,  was  her  story  ?     Who  was  she, 
Who  that  strange  token  wore  so  secretly  ? 
American  by  birth.     Upon  the  stone 
Above  her  foreign  grave,  her  name  alone — 
ADELAIDE  LOVELACE— was  inscribed.      No  more 
It  told  to  strangers  than  they  knew  before 
Of  her,  who,  wrapped  in  sorrow  or  in  pride, 
Alone  had  lived,  alone  at  Florence  died. 


CANTO  I. 


I. 

Our  "Old  Dominion,"  in  her  palmy  day, 

Could  many  a  stately  mansion-house  display 

Fair  as  Park  Aubray,  where  our  scene  is  laid  : 

Some  yet  remain,  neglected  and  decayed, 

Or,  having  passed  to  strangers,  are  bedecked 

In  new  "  improvements,"  worse  then  all  neglect ; 

But  some  are  lovely  still,  through  change  and  chance 

Of  time,  and  war,  and  adverse  circumstance. 

Park  Aubray,  beautiful  and  lonely,  stands 

Deserted,  in  a  waste  of  lonely  lands  ; 

For  brave  must  be  the  tenant  who  would  dare 

To  dwell  within  the  mansion  moldering  there, 

To  all  the  country-side  a  place  of  dread, 

A  "  haunted  house,"  the  dwelling  of  the  dead. 

The  present  owner,  though  of  Aubray  blood, 
Beneath  its  moss-grown  roof  has  never  stood. 
A  distant  kinsman,  being  the  heir-at-law, 
Owns  Aubray  Park,  a  place  he  never  saw. 
By  will,  he  was  the  chosen  heir,  beside, 
Of  her  who  recently  at  Florence  died, 


206  MAKCELLA. 

Adelaide  Lovelace — of  the  Aubray  race 

The  last  who  owned  the  Aubray  dwelling-placer 

Ere  the  estate  to  this  new  master  passed, 

Who  left  it  what  he  found,  a  lonely  waste  ; 

For  he  is  one  of  those  who,  having  lost 

The  "Cause  "  they  fought  for,  cling  to  its  "  poor  ghost. "" 

Self-exiled  from  his  native  land,  he  strays 

From  realm  to  realm,  and  dreams  thro'  aimless  days. 

II. 

So,  Aubray  Park  stands  lonely  ;  fortunate, 
Despite  misfortune.     Better  such  a  fate — 
Better  in  lonely  grandeur  to  decay, 
Than  have  its  silvan  beauty  swept  away 
By  paint  and  "  progress,"  till  its  time-won  grace 
And  Old-World  quaintness  vanish  from  the  place- 
And,  though  its  rightful  owners  come  no  more, 
At  least,  no  stranger-lord  has  crossed  its  door ; 
The  great,  wide  mirrors  in  the  drawing-room 
Still  glimmer  palely  through  the  silent  gloom, 
Reflect  the  portraits  on  the  dusty  wall, 
Brave  men,  fair  women — fading  shadows,  all ! 
But  on  those  mirrors,  no  strange  master's  face 
Even  for  a  fleeting  moment  has  found  place ; 
In  the  old  library  no  stranger-hand 
Has  touched  the  books — nor  careless  eye  hath  scanned 
Time-honored  manuscripts  and  volumes  worn, 
That,  like  their  owners,  will  to  dust  return — 


MARCELLA. 

And  a  young  poet's  songs,  whose  every  word 
Came  music-laden  as  a  mocking-bird. 
Those  solitary  halls  and  chambers  mute 
Give  back  no  echo  to  the  stranger's  foot. 

III. 

"  Park  Au bray  "  was  the  sounding  name  bestowed 
By  Edmond  d'  Aubray  on  his  loved  abode, 
New-built  when  he  from  England  crossed  the  sea, 
From  Cromwell,  the  "  Protector"  forced  to  flee. 
Virginia  bent  to  the  usurper's  reign, 
But  Aubray  dwelt  unharmed  on  his  domain. 
The  Restoration  came ;  but  he  had  grown 
To  love  this  new  land,  dearer  than  his  own  : 
French  by  his  parentage,  though  English-born, 
The  loss  of  England  he  had  ceased  to  mourn  ; 
Looked  on  the  growing  colony  with  pride, 
And  loved  Park  Aubray,  where,  in  time,  he  died. 

IV. 

Built  of  red  brick,  the  dark  old  mansion  stood 

On  level  land,  surrounded  by  a  wood, 

A  grove  of  Spanish  oaks, l  whose  branches  threw 

An  arch  of  green  across  the  avenue. 

Fine,  closely-shaven  grass  grew  in  the  shade, 

And  petted  fawns  in  dappled  beauty  strayed, 

Where  the  wild  pheasant's  plumes  of  spotted  gold, 

And  crested  peacocks'  starry  trains  unfold. 

One  sunny  spot  there  was  :  a  space  before 


aoS  MARC  ELLA. 

The  stone  steps  leading  to  the  great  hall  door, 

Was  full  of  richest  flowers  :  a  fairy  view 

Down  the  long  vista  of  the  avenue. 

Elsewhere,  upon  the  green  that  swept  away 

Throughout  the  grove,  no  shrub  nor  blossom  gay 

A  human  hand  had  set  ;  yet  all  in  flower 

The  oak-grove  blazed :  each  tree  was  one  great  bower 

Of  trumpet-vines,  that  clothed  from  branch  to  root 

The  trees  in  one  rich  mass  of  leaf  and  shoot 

And  crimson  bloom.     The  gorgeous  parasites 

Climbed  to  the  boughs  and  wreathed  the  topmost  heights. 

Long  years,  the  trees  bore  up  their  blooming  foes, 

And  still  the  bell-flower  by  the  acorn  grows  ; 

The  stately  trees  no  loss  of  strength  betray 

Under  the  vines  would  draw  their  life  away, 

But  robed  and  crowned,  stand  as  they  long  have  stood, 

Like  the  strange  growth  of  some  enchanted  wood. 

V. 

Old  Mrs.  Lovelace  long  had  owned  this  place, 
In  eighteen-thirty-eight.     Of  Aubray  race 
Was  she;  a  race  self-willed,  high-hearted,  proud; 
With  strength  of  mind  and  beauty  well  endowed. 
Some  vices,  many  virtues  they  could  show  ; 
Forgot  no  friend,  but  could  forgive  a  foe  : 
And  foes  they  had,  as  all  must  have :  though  few 
The  friends  they  sought,  seldom  were  these  untrue. 
Love  is  the  recompense  of  love,  'tis  said, 
And  one  great  virtue  these  proud  Aubrays  had. 


MAR  CELL  A.  209 

A  virtue  few  possess,  but  all  approve — 

Fidelity  in  friendship  or  in  love. 

His  word,  once  pledged,  no  Aubray  ever  broke, 

Nor  trust  betrayed,  nor  any  friend  forsook, 

But  held,  through  good  and  ill,  his  steadfast  faith, 

Till  the  great,  loving  heart  was  stilled  in  death. 

But,  once  betrayed,  an  Aubray's  trusting  heart 

Knew  naught  of  patient  faith,  the  nobler  part: 

Like  the  famed  crystal,  said  to  break  in  twain 

At  touch  of  poison,  so,  at  falsehood's  stain 

His  love,  his  faith,   his  trust,  in  fragments  broke, 

And  all  the  savage  in  his  nature  woke. 

VI. 

And  Helen  Lovelace  was  (as  has  been  said) 

An  Aubray  born.      Her  husband,  long  since  dead, 

Had  left  no  children,  so  the  lady  sought 

Heirs  among  her  own  relatives,   and  brought 

To  Aubray  Park  her  brother's  widowed  bride  ; 

But,  in  the  self-same  year,  she,  also,  died, 

Leaving  an  infant  daughter,  fair  of  face — 

The  youngest  blossom  of  the  Aubray  race. 

Nourished  by  her  fond  aunt  with  tender  care, 

The  lovely  infant  grew  to  childhood  fair. 

So  fair  that  she  deserved  her  name  of  Blanche  : 

White  as  a  May-bloom  on  a  bending  branch, 

Or  summer  cloudlet  in  a  sky  of  blue, 

To  peerless  maidenhood  Blanche  Aubray  grew. 


MARC  ELL  A. 

VII. 

But  Helen  Lovelace  had  another  niece, 
Her  sister's  child:  the  mother's  late  decease 
In  a  far  distant  State,  her  child  had  thrown 
Friendless  upon  the  world,  helpless,  and  lone. 
Adelaide  Aubray,  in  the  days  long  past, 
Had  made  a  love-match  little  to  the  taste 
Of  her  proud  kindred,  with  a  Northern  youth, 
And,  for  his  sake,  had  left  her  native  South. 
Young  love  against  old  blood  but  lightly  weighed 
The  only  dower  given  to  Adelaide 
Was  bitter  anger,  or  more  cruel  scorn, 
Or  cold  contempt.      Had  he  been  gentle-born, 
Had  he  their  equal  seemed  to  Aubray  eyes, 
This  story  might  have  ended  otherwise. 
His  poverty,  indeed,  was  not  a  sin 
In  well-born  Southern  eyes,  but  Herbert  Linn 
Nor  had,  nor  honored,  claims  to  gentle  blood  : 
From  points  opposing,  each  the  subject  viewed, 
Linn  thinking  it  enough  to  be  a  man 
Cultured  and  true,  a  good  republican  ; 
But  the  proud  race  with  which  he  was  allied 
Were  born  and  bred  aristocrats,  whose  pride 
Was  far  above  all  thought  of  golden  gain, 
And  low-born  culture  eyed  with  calm  disdain:2 
Linn  wanted  all  things,  measured  by  their  rule — 
A  low-born  Yankee  youth,  who  "kept  a  school." 


MARC  EL  LA.  211 

So,  "all  for  love,"  the  haughty  A u bray  belle 

Wedded,  and  lost  her  world.     If  it  were  "  well" 

For  her,  I  know  not,  nor  for  him  she  loved. 

To  the  far  North  the  youthful  pair  removed, 

And,  after  years  of  hopeless  poverty, 

The  husband  died,  and  Adelaide  was  free 

To  seek,  if  so  she  willed,  her  Southern  home. 

They  would  have  welcomed  her  if  she  had  come, 

But  of  her  husband's  death  they  had  not  heard, 

For  Adelaide  nor  wrote  nor  sent  a  word 

To  her  proud  kindred,  but,  from  year  to  year 

Remained  as  lost  to  them  as  they  to  her. 

Her  husband's  relatives  were  poor  enough, 

But  helped  her  as  they  could :  her  life  was  rough 

And  hard ;  but  armed  in  pride  and  love's  own  strength, 

She  fought  life's  battle  well ;  and  when,  at  length, 

She  yielded, — t'was  to  that  all-conquering  one 

None  can  resist — she  bowed  to  death  alone : 

Then,  from  her  death-bed  to  her  sister  sent, 

Asking,  if  Aubray  pride  would  yet  relent  ? 

Not  for  herself  she  sought  their  tardy  aid, 

But  for  her  child,  the  younger  Adelaide. 

Before  her  message  reached  them  she  was  dead. 

Not  through  green  meadows  did  her  life-path  lead, 

Nor  by  still  waters :  few  and  evil  were 

Her  days,  and  welcome  was  the  grave  to  her. 


M  ARC  ELL  A. 

VIII. 

And  thus  to  Aubray  Park  came  Adelaide  Linn, 
A  charming  girl  as  ever  smiled  therein. 
To  both  these  orphan  girls  their  kind  aunt  strove 
Due  care  to  give,  and  full,  impartial  love; 
But  Blanche  was  still,  in  truth,  the  favorite  child: 
Adelaide's  manners  were  more  smooth  and  mild, 
But  the  bright,  mischief-loving  Blanche  had  been 
From  baby-hood  Park  Aubray's  fairy  queen, 
Beloved  by  all  her  subjects,  black  and  white. 
She  was  the  Aubray  heiress,  too,  by  right : 
Her  grandsire,  in  his  later  days,  had  meant 
Park  Aubray  for  his  son :  but  this  intent 
Untimely  death  forbade  him  to  fulfill. 
His  elder  daughter  knew  her  father's  will, 
And,  as  the  old  man  wished  it,  even  so, 
(She  said),  to  Blanche  the  Aubray  land  should  go. 

IX. 

And  never  was  a  mocking-bird  more  wild, 
More  free  and  joyous,  than  this  lovely  child. 
Incarnate  joy  she  seemed,  and  in  her  glee 
Fearless  and  frank  as  innocence  can  be ; 
Loving  and  trusting  as  those  are  who  know 
Their  own  hearts  faithful,  and  deem  others  so. 
Blanche  was  an  Aubray  :  many  traits  she  had 
Of  Aubray  character,  both  good  and  bad ; 
But  Adelaide  showed  not,  in  mind  or  face, 
The  slightest  kindred  to  her  mother's  race. 


MARCELLA.  213 

Alien  alike  in  feature  and  in  soul, 
Gifted  with  patience  and  with  self-control, 
Gentle  of  look — to  Aubray  Park  she  came, 
Trained  all  her  life  to  hate  the  Aubray  name, 

X. 

But  beauty's  charm  was  hers:  a  woven  crown 
Of  wreathed  and  braided  tresses,  chesnut-brown, 
Adorned  her  graceful  head,  and  waved  across 
The  low,  white  brow  in  satin-shining  gloss. 
The  downward  eyes  half  hid  their  violet  light 
Beneath  white  lids  and  lashes  golden-bright  : 
Arbutus-bells  are  not  more  pinky-pure 
Than  her  smooth  cheek  and  maiden  mouth  demure, 
And  her  sweet  voice  was  always  soft  and  low — 
"An  excellent  thing  in  woman,"  as  we  know. 

Like  two  fond  sisters,  Blanche  and  Adelaide 
Together  rode,  and  walked,  and  sung,  and  played, 
Studied,  and  sewed,  or  practiced  household  arts 
With  equal  minds  and  undivided  hearts. 

XI. 

Five  years  passed  quickly,  thus.     Blanche  was  eighteen, 

And  Adelaide  some  twenty  years  had  seen, 

When  rumor  whispered — and  the  whisper  flew — 

Of  trouble  at  the  Park.     The  rumor  grew, 

And  gathered  strength,  like  fire  from  some  faint  spark  : 

"Great  trouble  had  arisen  at  Aubray  Park." 

15 


214  MARCELLA. 

One  of  the  girls  so  deeply  loved,  and  bred 

As  daughters  of  the  house,  dark  rumor  said, 

Had,  snake-like,  stung  the  hand  they  should  have  kissed 

One  of  them  was — an  abolitionist! 

An  abolitionist  !3     And  was  this  all  ? 
It  was  enough,  at  least.     Of  words  that  fall 
With  most  of  utter  horror  in  their  tone, 
Of  hatred  and  abhorence,  there  was  none 
That  smote  like  this  upon  a  Southron's  ear; 
It  brought  a  thrill  of  loathing,  scorn,  and  fear, 
As  one  who,  walking  with  incautious  tread, 
Sees  in  his  path  a  lurking  copperhead. 

By  the  term  "abolitionist,"  they  meant 

A  secret  foe,  whose  merciless  intent 

Was,  to  incite  the  slaves — an  untaught  host — 

To  insurrection,  reckless  of  the  cost. 

Yet,  there  were  Southrons  who  did  not  believe 

The  "right-divine"  of  slavery,  nor  receive 

With  faith  unquestioning  the  creed  that  gave 

Freedom  to  them  and  bondage  to  the  slave ; 

But,  he  who  hated  slavery,  loathed  yet  more 

The  spy-conspirator,  whose  subtle  power 

Kept  him  forever  trembling  lest  the  torch 

Be  first  applied  to  his  own  vine-wreathed  porch. 

XII. 

A  servile  insurrection,  who  can  paint  ? 

When,  crazed  with  sudden,  boundless  unrestraint, 


MARC  ELL  A.  215 

Slaves  revel  in  the  drunkenness  of  blood; 
And  all  alike,  the  guilty  and  the  good, 
Share  the  same  doom;  and  youth  and  age  expire, 
And  the  whole  land  is  red  with  blood  and  fire. 

That  the  unpitied  Southrons  did  not  know 
The  fullness  of  this  unexampled  woe, 
They  thank  the  slave :  content  to  bide  his  time, 
His  patient  shrewdness  did  not  stoop  to  crime ; 
Whether  through  prudence  or  through  gentleness, 
Grateful  remembrance  is  his  due  no  less : 
The  slave  struck,  if  at  all,  in  open  strife, 
Nor  won  his  freedom  by  the  assassin's  knife. 

XIII. 

And  one  of  Aubray  race  had  now  become 

A  traitor  to  her  country,  State,  and  home ; 

"  Caught  by  the  abolition  fantasy, 

Of  wholesale  freedom  and  philanthropy :" 

Such  the  most  charitable  view  of  one 

Whom  friends  and  kindred  all  agreed  to  shun, 

Like  a  poor,  plague-struck  outcast : — dire  disgrace 

To  one  of  those  fair  girls  of  Aubray  race ! 

Which  one  ?     Of  course  the  Northern  Adelaide, 
Triumphant  rumor  said — then  stopped,  dismayed. 
Like  a  bright  blossom  from  a  wind-blown  tree, 
Or  silver  rain-drop  on  a  stormy  sea, 


216  MARC  ELL  A. 

So  sweet  Blanche  Aubray  from  her  station  fell. 
She  vanished — how  or  whither,  none  could  tell; 
But  this  was  certain, — she  had  disappeared 
From  Aubray  Park,  the  home  where  she  was  reared. 

XIV. 

And  none  to  Mrs.  Lovelace  dared  to  break 
The  silence  she  imposed  ;  none  dared  to  speak 
Aloud  the  graceful  name  once  so  beloved. 
Blanche  Aubray's  portrait  was  at  once  removed, 
No  one  knew  whither ;  but  a  tale  went  round 
Of  hidden  rooms  and  cellars  underground 
At  Aubray,  and,  in  these,  the  gossips  held, 
The  portrait  and  the  girl  were  both  concealed. 
But  time  went  on,  unmoved ;  and  day  by  day, 
These  idle  rumors,  fading,  passed  away. 

Adelaide  Linn  now  held  unbounded  sway 

At  Aubray  Park;  and  when  her  kind  aunt  died 

In  the  same  year,  (of  wounded  love  and  pride, 

Not  less  than  age),   she  left  the  Aubray  land, 

And  all  the  fortune  at  her  own  command, 

To  Adelaide;  with  only  this  request — 

That  she  should  wed  Charles  Lovelace :  this  behest 

Suited  both  Lovelace  and  fair  Adelaide, 

Nor  was  the  auspicious  marriage  long  delayed. 


MARCELLA.  217 

XV. 

Charles  Lovelace  was  her  nephew  by  the  tie 
Of  marriage  merely :  in  the  days  gone  by 
He  often  came  to  Aubray,  and  had  played 
In  childhood  both  with  Blanche  and  Adelaide. 
The  wedding  over,  Helen  Lovelace  died, 
Old,  broken-hearted,  crushed  in  hope  and  pride; 
And  in  the  willow-shaded  burial-place 
She  slept,  with  many  more  of  Aubray  race. 
Age  fitly  died,  and  youth  as  fitly  reigned ; 
While,  Blanche,  forgotten  as  the  dead,  remained 
Lost,  as  completely  as  a  wandering  star  : 
And  then,  in  five  more  years,  came  civil  war. 


CANTO  II. 


I. 

In  eighteen-hundred-sixty-three,  in  days 
When  civil  war  had  set  the  land  a-blaze; 
The  days  of  martial  deeds ;  the  whirling  time 
Of  tears  and  laughter,  wild  romance  and  crime  ; 
Daring  adventures;  revels;  wretchedness; 
And  some  true  hearts  and  patriot  souls  no  less  ; 
When  anarchy  seemed  broken  loose,  at  last, 
And  nothing  in  the   "reeling  world"  stood  fast; — 
At  Aubray  Park  occurred,  in  that  strange  time, 
Events  as  wild  as  e'er  were  told  in  rhyme, 
And  tragic  as  the  year  from  which  they  date — 
Events  that  left  Park  Aubray  desolate. 

II. 

Charles  Lovelace,  rousing  at  the  first  alarm 
Of  war,  rushed  to  the  conflict.     Young  and  warm, 
And  Southern  to  the  center  of  his  heart, 
He  played  in  Southern  cause  a  gallant  part : 
Meantime,  his  wife  was  left  alone  to  wait 
Her  lord's  return,  in  semi-widowed  state. 


MARC  ELLA.  219 

Adelaide  Lovelace,  wealthy,  fair  and  young, 

Her  charms  the  theme  of  every  flattering  tongue, 

Gifted  with  wit,  in  grace  beyond  compare, 

Seemed  beauty's  darling  and  good  fortune's  heir. 

And,  yet,  her  life  was  not  all  happiness ; 

Joy  was  not  all  those  features  could  express : 

Sometimes,  when  gayety  was  at  its  height, 

Her  head  would  droop,  like  flowers  at  sudden  blight, 

While  on  her  glooming  brow  and  darkened  eye 

Rested  the  shade  of  some  sad  memory  : 

And  oft,  for  days,  both  face  and  manner  wore 

A  brooding  sadness  never  seen  of  yore. 

'Twas  said,  that  in  the  lady's  charming  home 

Demons  of  doubt  and  jealousy  found  room  ; 

They  said  her  lord's  distrust  made  dark  her  life, 

Too  much  a  tyrant  to  his  fair  young  wife. 

That  Lovelace  worshiped  her,  was  plain  and  clear; 

As  plain,  that  she  regarded  him  with  fear ; 

But  love  and  fear  might  well  be  found  combined 

For  one  whose  very  tyranny  was  kind, 

Arising  from  the  love  that  would  not  brook 

To  lose  one  smile  of  hers,  nor  share  one  look. 

She  did  not  smile  the  more  when  he  was  gone, 

Nor  grew  her  brow  less  sad  when  left  alone : 

But  those  were  wild  and  anxious  times,  at  best, 

And  few  could  boast  a  spirit  all  at  rest. 


MARCELLA. 

III. 

On  a  still  summer  evening,  Adelaide 
Through  the  green  park  alone  and  thoughtful  strayed. 
Eastward  the  shadows  sloped,  and  western  light 
Trembled  across  the  mere1  all  rosy-bright. 
Bathed  in  the  radiance  of  the  sunset  glow, 
Across  the  park  she  passed  with  footstep  slow; 
Tracing  the  pool  along  its  winding  bank, 
Under  the  willows,  growing  rank  by  rank, 
Until  she  reached  the  limit  of  the  mere  : 
From  the  steep-sloping  cliff,  a  streamlet  clear, 
Broke,  ere  it  reached  the  darker  pool  below, 
Into  three  rills,  soft-tinkling  as  they  go. 
With  spreading  boughs,  and  "more  than  common  tall," 
A  holly  grew  beside  the  triple  fall ; 
And,  higher  on  the  cliff,  magnolias  grew, 
Azaleas,  laurels,  and  wild  ivy, 2  too  ; 
Cresting  the  hill,  great,  solemn  cedars  stood, 
Inmixed  with  pine — a  dark  and  sombre  wood. 
Below  the  waterfall,  beside  the  mere, 
Which  spread  its  waters  dark  but  amber-clear, 
A  huge  oak,  rich  in  mistletoe  and  moss, 
Cast  its  broad  shadow  half  the  pool  across. 
Beneath  this  shaggy  oak,  a  large  grey  stone, 
With  lichens  green  and  mosses  overgrown, 
Seemed  rudely  fashioned  for  a  great  arm-chair — 
Fashioned  by  Nature's  hand,  who  placed  it  there. 
In  pensive  mood,  the  lady  rested  here. 
Gazing  with  dreamy  eyes  upon  the  mere. 


MARC  ELL  A.  2 

IV. 

Was  it  the  wind,  that  moving  fitfully 

Through  the  full  foliage,  sounded  like  a  sigh  ? 

Was  it  the  water-fall's  sweet  monotone 

Which  her  sad  fancy  turned  into  a  moan  ? 

Above  the  woodland  odors,  she  can  tell 

The  scent  of  crushed  sweet-brake,3  she  knows  it  well; 

And,  once  again,  that  soft,  low  breathing  came, 

In  tremulous  tones  that  uttered  her  own  name. 

Startled,  she  turns,  and  barely  can  discern 

A  crouching  figure,  hidden  in  the  fern  ; 

A  pair  of  eyes  that  matched  her  own  in  hue, 

And  features  that  full  well  the  lady  knew. 

Adelaide,  with  a  faintly-uttered  scream, 

Sinks  back  upon  the  stone.     As  in  a  dream. 

She  sees  the  youth,  who,  kneeling  at  her  feet, 

Seems  earnestly  her  pity  to  entreat. 

It  seemed  a  Southern  soldier  who  thus  lay, 

Clad  in  a  full  suit  of  Confederate  grey. 

V. 

Giddy  as  from  a  swoon,  the  lady  gaxed 
Upon  the  features  to  her  own  up-raised : 
It  was  a  handsome  face,  worth  looking  on. 
The  rich  blue  eyes  like  living  jewels  shone, 
And  the  short,  curling  locks  of  flaxen  hair 
Waved  round  a  forehead  femininely  fair, 
Shading  a  beardless  cheek,  more  white,  by  far, 
Than  sun-touched  cheeks  of  soldiers  often  are. 


MARC  ELL  A. 

"Adelaide,  dearest  Adelaide!"  she  hears: 
"  By  all  the  memories  of  our  childhood's  years, 
By  your  own  heart,  and  by  your  father's  grave, 
Pity  your  kinsman,  and,  in  pitying  save !  " 

VI. 

"What  do  you  here  ?"  spoke  faintly  Adelaide  ; 
And  pressed  with  trembling  hand  the  fallen  braid 
Back  from  her  moistened  brow  and  bloodless  cheek. 
"Tell  me — but  no!      This  is  no  time  to  speak — 

"  Stay,  but  a  moment!     Some  short  space  allow — " 

"No,  no!     I  cannot — dare  not  hear  you  now! 

For  in  these  tell-tale  woodlands  may  be  heard 

Too  far  the  winged  echo  of  a  word. 

There  is  a  pleasant  grotto  in  this  hill, 

Where  you  may  bide  till  nightfall,  if  you  will. 

'Tis  fitted  up   a  silvan  reading-room, 

And  you  may  rest  till  twilight  shadows  come, 

In  safety;  for,  there,  none  will  dare  intrude 

Upon  your  resting-place,  secure,  though  rude." 

' '  I  know  the  place,  for  it  was  there  I  lay, 
O'er-worn  with  toil,  the  morn  of  this  long  day." 

"Thither  return,  and  tarry  for  the  shade 
Of  friendly  night :  'twill  not  be  long  delayed, 
For,  see,  the  light  has  faded  from  the  mere. 
Adieu,  till  then.     I  may  not  linger  here! 


MAR  CELL  A.  22. 

Trust  to  my  love,  Romaine !     To  profit  you, 
Nothing  shall  be  undone  that  I  can  do!" 

She  clasped  his  hand — then  turned,  and  thro'  the  dark 
Of  gathering  shades,  fled  home  across  the  park. 

VII. 

Reaching  her  own  apartment,  there  she  found 
Her  favorite  maid,  Marcella.     Glancing  round, 
As  to  be  sure  no  listener  could  be  nigh — 
"  Marcella  !"  said  her  mistress:   "  you  and  I 
Have  dwelt  together  more  like  friend  and  friend 
Than  maid  and  mistress.     Can  I  now  depend 
On  your  affection  and  fidelity  ?" 
"Miss  Adelaide,  I've  served  you  faithfully," 
Replied  Marcella,  "and  will  do  so  now. 
It  but  remains  for  you  to  show  me  how." 

"Do  you  remember,"  answered  Adelaide, 
"My  cousin,  who  once  here  at  Aubray  stayed 
A  week  or  more?     His  name  is  Romaine  Linn." 
Marcella  smiled.      "  One  of  your  Northern  kin, 
Of  whom  our  master  is  so  jealous  ?" 

"Yes; 

And  this  remembrance  adds  to  my  distress. 
Of  Major  Lovelace  I  could  ask  no  aid, 
Even  were  he  here  at  home;"  said  Adelaide. 
"More  brother-like  than  cousin-like  to  me 
Is  Romaine,  whom  I  loved  from  infancy. 


224  MARCEL  LA. 

He  is  my  junior  by  six  years,  or  more: 

My  pet  and  favorite  in  the  days  before 

I  came  to  Aubray  Park.     For  many  a  year 

With  Romaine  passed  my  childhood :  not  more  dear 

Can  any  brother  to  his  sister  be, 

Than  my  young  cousin,  Romaine  Linn,  to  me. 

And  he  is  in  great  peril!  in  disguise, 

Hid  in  the  grot  of  Cedar  Hill  he  lies. 

I  know  not  whence  he  comes,  nor  why,  nor  how ! 

He  held  the  rank  of  captain,  that  I  know, 

In  our — I  mean,  the  Northern  army.'' 

"Why," 

Answered  Marcella,  "does  he  hidden  lie 
Within  the  Southern  lines?     Is  he  a  spy?" 

All  trace  of  red  the  lady's  cheek  forsook ; 

Her  very  lips  a  death-like  pallor  took  : 

"  Silence  !"  she  breathed.     Marcella  drew  more  near, 

And  in  low  murmurs  at  her  lady's  ear, 

Talked  earnestly  and  long :  and  Adelaide 

Grew  calmer,  as  she  listened  to  the  maid. 

VIII. 

Of  living  creatures  in  the  world  beside, 
The  lady  on  this  slave  the  most  relied. 
Marcella's  story  was  a  curious  one : 
An  Aubray  slave,  she  was  not  born  upon 


MAR  CELL  A.  22$ 

The  domain  of  Park  Aubray,  but  away 
On  a  plantation  that  in  lowlands  lay, 
Beside  the  river.      Ere  she  was  full-grown 
She  fled  from  slavery,  and  it  was  known 
That  she  reached  Canada.     Years  passed  away, 
When  suddenly,  one  memorable  day, 
She  re-appeared  at  Aubray.     Adelaide 
At  Aubray  Park  the  "  rod  of  empire  "  swayed 
At  this  time,  and  to  her  Marcella  went. 
"  She'd  learned,"  she  said,  "  to  bitterly  repent 
Exchanging  the  light  tasks  of  slavery 
For  ceaseless  toils  and  perils  of  the  free. 
Would  not  Miss  Adelaide  forgive  ?     Once  more 
Try  her,  she'd  be  more  faithful  than  before." 
And  Adelaide,  pleased  at  the  girl's  return, 
And  at  the  lesson  other  slaves  might  learn 
From  this  repentant  fugitive, — forgave, 
And,  far  from  punishing  the  regained  slave, 
Placed  her  about  her  person;  where  full  soon 
The  intelligent  and  beautiful  quadroon 
Gained  Adelaide's  full  confidence.     And  she, 
Marcella,  served  her  mistress  faithfully, 
As  if  she  always  and  by  all  means  strove 
To  prove  her  grateful  and  devoted  love. 

IX. 

The  hours,  to  Romaine  on  his  cavern  floor, 
More  slowly  passed  than  e'er  did  hours  before. 


216  MARCELLA. 

Weary  was  he,  and  hungry,  sick,  and  cold; 
He  felt  the  chilly  darkness  round  him  fold, 
And,  almost  swooning  in  his  weakness,  lay 
Dreading  yet  longing  for  the  coming  day. 
At  last,  he  saw  a  shadow  flit  before 
The  glimmering  half-light  of  the  cavern  door; 
A  light  form  bent,  a  quick  foot  stepped  within, 
And  a  low  voice  spoke  softly:   "  Captain  Linn  ?" 

"  Who  is  it?     Not  my  cousin  Adelaide  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  low,  sweet  tones :     "  I  am  her  maid." 

She  pressed  a  match  against  the  cavern-side, 
And  the  small  jet  of  flame  at  once  applied 
To  a  light  lamp  she  carried  in  her  hand ; 
And  by  the  steady  beam  she  closely  scanned 
The  features  of  the  Northman  :  he  surveyed 
In  turn,  the  features  of  the  quadroon  maid. 
The  lamp  she  held  was  raised  above  her  head, 
And  a  bright  ring  of  light  around  her  spread, 
Revealing  to  Romanic's  astonished  gaze 
A  form  of  loveliness  beyond  all  praise. 
But,  though  she  stood  within  a  halo  bright, 
Yet  had  she  neither  saint's  nor  angel's  light : 
Rather,  in  baleful  beauty  threatening 
As  Lamia,  from  her  coil  about  to  spring, 
Or  wild  enchantress  in  a  magic  ring. 


MARC  ELL  A.  227 

X. 

Not  like  a  common  slave  was  she  arrayed;4 

Her  rich  attire  confessed  the  favorite  maid. 

Her  flowing  skirt  was  deepest  violet-hue, 

But  the  gay  jacket  shone  in  brightest  blue, 

With  rows  of  silver  buttons,  silver  braid, 

And  silver  tassels,  twinkling  as  they  swayed. 

About  her  head  in  full  but  graceful  fold, 

A  silken  sash  of  finest  blue  was  rolled, 

And  where  the  ends  with  careless  grace  were  tied, 

They  swept  her  shoulders  with  their  fringes  wide. 

This  turban  hid  the  hair,  except  a  row 

Of  short,  black  curls  across  her  forehead  low — 

So  low,  the  tiny  ringlets  almost  met 

The  fine,  straight  eyebrow's  line  of  perfect  jet. 

Upon  her  cheek's  dark  oval  deeply  glows 

The  dusky  crimson  of  a  velvet  rose ; 

Her  mouth  betrays  no  sign  of  negro  race — 

Fine,  faultless  lips,  a  sculptor's  dream  of  grace, 

Somewhat  too  cold  and  stern,  too  closely  shut, 

And  hard  and  red  as  if  from  coral  cut. 

The  straight  Greek  nose  a  model  might  have  been 

For  the  proud  profile  of  some  captive  queen  ; 

The  thin  -dilating  nostril,  though  not  wide, 

Expanding  easily  with  scorn  or  pride. 

But,  when  she  speaks,  the  parting  lips  reveal 

A  flash  of  teeth  that  sparkle  like  cut-steel — 

Teeth  whose  metallic  luster  almost  vies 


228  MARCEL  LA. 

With  the  hard  brilliance  of  her  deep  black  eyes ; 

And  strange  it  was  that  human  eyes  could  shine 

With  light  so  cold,  with  beauty  so  malign. 

Their  sharp,  cold  light  is  shaded  and  half  hid 

By  the  thick  fringes  of  the  half-closed  lid, 

But,  even  in  deep  repose,  seems  fraught  with  harm, 

Like  the  sheathed  lightnings  of  a  rising  storm. 

XI. 

But  from  those  chiseled  lips  the  voice  that  came 

Might  put  the  soul  of  melody  to  shame. 

O  sweetest  tones!  whose  breathings  clearer  are 

Than  May-dew  trembling  to  the  morning  star ; 

Softer  than  velvet,  and  as  rich  as  musk 

Or  full-blown  tuberose  in  the  dewy  dusk. 

"  My  name,  sir,  is  Marcella.     I  am  here 

Because  my  mistress  cou  d  not  come :  we  fear 

Of  other  slaves  the  ready  ear,  quick  eye, 

And  busy  tongue,  that  lets  no  rumor  die. 

My  mistress  would  inquire  of  you,  through  me, 

Why  you  have  hither  come,  so  recklessly  ? 

Young  man,  you  wish  to  lose  your  life,  'tis  plain." 

"  Not  so ;  I  wish  to  save  it,"  said  Romaine. 
"'At  least,  I  would  not  die  in  such  a  way, 
If  I  might  .choose.     But,  briefly,  let  me  say  : 


MAR  CELL  A.  229 

XII. 

"  At  the  late  forward  movement  made  by  Lee, 
It  happened  (most  unhappily  for  me), 
That  I  had  leave  to  visit  on  a  farm 
Not  far  from  camp.      My  visit  did  no  harm 
To  any  but  myself:  with  best  intent 
(Indeed,  to  aid  some  union  friends)  I  went. 
The  enemy's  advance  was  sudden  :  there 
Was  I,  within  his  lines  :  my  host,  with  fear 
Beside  himself,  implored  me,  for  hit  sake 
And  for  his  household,  some  disguise  to  take; 
This  suit,  which  now  I  wear,  of  Southern  grey, 
He  begged  me  to  assume,  for  but  a  day, 
Till  the  Confederates  should  be  gone  — and  then 
He'd  guide  me  to  the  Federal  lines  again. 
Were  I,  a  Yankee,  found  beneath  his  roof 
As  guest  and  friend,  he  said,  it  were  enough 
To  ruin  him  and  other  friends  beside : 
And  so,  with  his  entreaties  I  complied, 
(Weakly,  indeed,)  because  I  would  not  be 
The  ruin  of  the  roof"  that  sheltered  me. 

I  faint  with  fasting  and  with  pain.      Not  now 

Can  I  relate  to  you  where,  when,  and  how, 

I  sought  to  pass  the  Southern  lines — in  vain  ! 

Within  the  rebel  lines  I  still  remain, 

And  in  disguise.     If  they  should  find  me  here, 

I  die — but  death  alone  I  do  not  fear, 

For  there  are  harder  things,  than  just  to  die  : 

16 


MARCELLA. 

They  hang  me,  if  they  take  me,  for  a  spy ! 
Go  tell  your  lady  this !     'Tis  no  disgrace 
To  say  that  such  a  death  I  dare  not  face ! 
But  other  means  of  death  are  in  my  reach, 
And,  if  she  cannot  aid  me — " 

"  Spare  your  speech," 
Replied  Marcella.    "  I  am  here  to  save. 
Arise,  and  quit  this  cold  and  cheerless  cave; 
No  safe  asylum,  this !  Ere  now,  in  truth, 
You  had  been  mangled  by  the  watch-dog's  tooth, 
But  I  have  bribed  the  keeper  of  the  beast 
To  house  him  safely,  for  this  night,  at  least." 

Romaine  spoke  not,  for  faintness.     The  quadroon 
Bent  down  and  shook  him  lightly,      "  Do  not  swoon! 
Rouse  all  your  strength,  at  once,  and  come  with  me 
Where  you  may  rest  in  full  security. 
You  shall  have  food,  wine,  everything  you  need  : 
Summon  your  strength,  and  follow  me,  with  speed!  " 

XIII. 

Extinguishing  the  lamp,  that  no  least  ray 
Like  glancing  wildfire  might  their  course  betray, 
She  hastened  from  the  cave ;  he  followed  fast 
As  weakness  could :  the  winding  mere  once  passed, 
They  crossed  the  park,  and  neared  the  mansion  tall : 
Marcella  paused  in  shadow  of  the  wall. 
Romaine  could  now  perceive  they  stood  before 
The  yawning  blackness  of  a  cellar-door. 


MARCELLA. 

Descending  here,  the  heavy  air  grew  thick 

With  dampness,  like  a  grave  :  his  heart  beat  quick 

With  weakness  and  excitement,  when,  once  more 

Pausing,  his  guide  unclosed  a  second  door, 

Whose  hinges  grated.     Now  the  air,  though  damp, 

Was  stifling  close.     Marcella  here  the  lamp 

Relighted:  in  a  narrow  passage,  there 

Like  a  step-ladder,  was  a  rude,  steep  stair, 

Seen  dimly  in  the  gloom ;  up  this  they  went  : 

The  shaded  lamp  a  feeble  radiance  lent, 

Showing  a  straight,  short  landing ;  at  the  end, 

Another  flight  of  steps,  which  they  ascend, 

Reaching  a  longer  passage,  narrow,  tall, 

And  thick  with  dust :  their  garments  brushed  the  wall 

On  either  side,  as  silently  they  passed, 

Until  they  reached  a  third  door,   and  the  last. 

XIV. 

This  door  she  opened.     Light  and  soft  perfume 
Greet  them  on  entering  this  small,  secret  room. 
'Twas  a  mere  closet;  but  no  fairy  hall 
Were  more  inviting,  than  that  chamber  small. 
The  floor  was  covered  with  a  matting  fine, 
Gold-hued,  and  brightened  by  a  scarlet  line; 
The  walls  were  paneled  with  a  smooth,  pale  wood, 
Which  mellow  time  had  now  made  amber-hued. 
A  crimson  couch,  with  pillows  snowy  fair. 
Woo'd  to  repose ;  and  a  great  easy  chair 


231 


232  MARCELLA. 

Cushioned  with  crimson  velvet,  waiting  stood 

Beside  a  table  heaped  with  dainty  food  : 

Bread,  in  white  puffs,  like  cotton ;  biscuits  thin, 

Light-brown  without,  but  snowy-white  within, 

On  tintless  china.      Pheasant  broiled,  and  fish, 

Each  neatly  placed  upon  a  pearl-white  dish ; 

Butter,  both  creamy-white  and  yellow-gold ; 

And  dark-red  jelly,  quivering  from  the  mold;  - 

Snow-sugared  cake,  of  fruits  and  spices  full ; 

Pure  honey,  candied  to  an  amber  dull; 

A  great  decanter  of  Bohemian  glass ; — 

Through  the  transparent  crystal  interlace 

Green  vinings,  branched  and  wreathed  in  quaint  device, 

Like  river-mosses  under  new-made  ice, — 

This  held  rich  juice  of  Carolina's  vine, 

The  sun-ripe  Scuppernong,  the  Southern  wine  : 

In  crystal  bowls  were  fruits  and  berries  set;  — 

Bowls  veined  with  ruby  and  with  violet ; 

And  a  rich  cup  of  cream,  to  crown  the  feast, 

So  thick  it  fell  in  droplets ;  last,  not  least, 

A  silver  urn  held  coffee  clear  as  wine. 

Gold-brown  as  amber,  with  aroma  fine — 

Had  the  Greek  gods  inhaled  it,  coffee  then 

Had  been  their  drink,  and  nectar  left  for  men. 

XV. 

"  Here's  food  and  wine  and  safety,"  said  the  slave. 
"  Whatever  more  is  needed,  you  shall  have. 


MARC  EL  LA.  233 

Tomorrow,  if  /  do  not  visit  you, 

Some  other  surely  will.     Till  then,  adieu." 

She  turned  and  left  the  room.     Romaine  could  hear, 

(And  not  without  a  passing  thrill  of  fear), 

The  sliding  bolt,  the  key  that  she  withdrew : 

He  might  be  safe,  but  was  a  captive,  too. 

When  food  and  wine  had  done  their  kindly  best 

For  his  spent  strength,  Romaine  sank  down  to  rest. 

Long  and  refreshing  was  his  deep  repose  : 

Then,  sleep  to  slumber  changed ;  wild  dreams  arose ; 

Strange  forms  of  death  and  terror :  all  in  vain 

He  strove  to  break  the  dream  so  full  of  pain; 

The  vision  came  again,  and  yet  again ; — 

A  woman's  threatening  beauty,  bright  and  fierce 

As  polished  poniards,  glittering  while  they  pierce ; 

A  face  with  gleaming  eye  and  cruel  lip, 

That  mocked  him  till  he  started  from  his  sleep. 

XVI. 

Down  from  the  center  of  the  ceiling  hung 
A  lamp  beneath  a  milk-white  shade,  that  flung 
A  mild  and  moonlight  radiance  o'er  the  room, 
Nor  left  a  nook  nor  corner  in  the  gloom. 
Romaine  could  see  no  window  anywhere  ; 
The  room,  indeed,  was,  like  the  secret  stair. 
Built  in  the  thickness  of  the  old  brick  walls, 
And  filched  from  closets  in  the  long,  dark  halls. 
Yet,  though  there  was  no  window,  fresh  and  free 


234  MAR  CELL  A. 

The  air  passed  in  and  out :  he  could  not  see 
Whence  came  the  wind,  but  felt  upon  his  brow 
Its  cooling  breath ;  beheld  it  fluttering  now 
In  the  dark  folds  of  something  on  the  wall — 
Something  that  waved  with  gentle  rise  and  fall, 
Like  a  thin  curtain  swaying  to  the  wind : 
Perhaps,  a  window  might  be  hid  behind  ! 
Upspringing  from  his  couch,  Romaine  advanced 
And  drew  the  curtain — stood,  as  one  entranced  ! 

XVII. 

He  did  not  find  a  curtained  window  there, 

But  a  bright,  pictured  form,  supremely  fair ; 

The  full-length  portrait  of  a  lovely  girl. 

Her  left  hand,  lightly  drooping,  held  the  whorl 

Of  a  great  lily ;  her  right  hand,  thrown  high 

Above  her  head,  held  there  exultingly 

A  cluster  of  wild  grapes,  whose  trailing  vine 

Curled  its  light  tendrils  round  her  fingers  fine, 

Shadowed  the  outline  of  her  snowy  arm, 

And  circled  half  the  figure's  airy  charm. 

So  light  the  pose,  so  small  the  fairy  foot, 

So  glad  the  face  beneath  the  o'erhanging  fruit, 

She  seemed  the  spirit  of  some  flowering  wood, 

Where  wild  grapes  hang  in  purple  plenitude. 

Rose-white  were  rounded  arms,  and  neck,  and  brow, 

As  morning's  blush  upon  new-fallen  snow  ; 

Rose-red  the  smiling  lips  ;  and  dimples  break 

The  rose-bloom  shadows  of  the  lovely  cheek. 


MARCELLA.  235 

The  soft,  rich  blackness  of  the  starry  eyes 

Shone  through  dark  lashes,  on  whose  chestnut  dyes 

Lay  tints  of  dusky  gold,  as  if  they  strove 

To  harmonize  with  slender  brows  above, 

Drawn  in  straight  lines  of  palest  golden-brown, 

Yet  darker  than  the  hair,  her  beauty's  crown. 

Light-gold  the  tresses  whose  redundant  flow 

Swept  over  snowy  shoulders,  far  below 

The  slender  girdle,  shimmering,  floating  far : 

As  in  the  rising  mist  the  morning-star 

Shines  nebulous  and  golden  through  the  veil 

Whose  hazy  web  enfolds  her  splendors  pale, 

So  shone  the  form,  whose  flossy,  floating  hair 

Hung  like  a  golden  gauze  upon    the  air. 

Although  the  further  slumbers  of  Romaine 

Were  filled  with  dreams,  they  were  not  dreams  of  pain ; 

Nor  did  Marcella  haunt  him  :  in  her  place 

He  saw  the  pictured  beauty's  radiant  face. 

XVIII. 

When  he  awoke,  it  might  have  been  broad  day 
Without,  but  of  the  sunlight  not  a  ray 
Entered  that  close  apartment.     Still  the  light 
Swung,  that  illumed  the  chamber  through  the  night, 
But  last  night's  feast  had  been  removed  :  and  there 
A  negro  stood,  beside  the  easy  chair, 
Who,  when  he  saw  the  youth  unclose  his  eyes, 
Moved  forward :     "  When  it  pleases  you  to  rise, 


MARC  EL  LA. 

I'm  here  to  serve  you,  sir;  King  is  my  name, 
And  you  may  trust  me,  sir,  the  very  same, 
Like  as  Marcella  or   Miss  Adelaide. 
Your  breakfast  waits  for  you;  the  coffee's  made." 

After  repast,  the  picture  smiling  there 

Drew  Romaine's  gaze ;  the  picture  with  bright  hair. 

' '  King,  tell  me,  if  you  can — what  picture's  this  ?  " 

"That,  sir,  is  our  Miss  Blanche,  our  own  young  Miss, 

Old  Mistis'  niece,  and  long  her  favorite. 

Park  Aubray  ought  to  be  hers  now,  by  right; 

Not  but  Miss  Blanche  had  money  of  her  own — 

Beg  pardon,  sir!   It's  time  I  should  be  gone, 

If  you  have  nothing  more  for  me  to  do. 

My  mistis'  soon  will  come  to  visit  you." 

"  Where  is  she,  now  ?  " 

Miss  Blanche  ?  Nobody  knows. 
Some  neither  know  nor  care,  as  I  suppose ! 
Money  makes  folks  hard-hearted,  seems  to  me. 
They  say,  Miss  Blanche  has  gone  to  Italy, 
A  foreign  country,  sir.     They  say,  her  home 
Is  in  some  town — I  think  they  call  it,  Rome. — 
But,  hark!  I  hear  Miss  Ad'laide." 

At  the  name, 

A  knock  was  heard:  into  the  room  then  came 
Adelaide  and  Marcella.     King  withdrew. 

Long  talked  the  cousins ;  each  for  each  went  through 
The  history  of  the  past  three  years ;  and  then 


MARCELLA.  237 

Spoke  of  the  present.     What  was  best,  or  when 
Romaine  should  leave  Park  Aubray,  was  not  clear. 
He  was  both  tired  and  ill,  and  must  rest  here 
Until  his  strength  returned,  and  he  could  try 
Once  more  to  pass  the  hostile  boundary. 

Adelaide  had  not,  hitherto,  beheld 
The  portrait,  though  its  beauty  hung  unveiled  ; 
But  when  the  conversation  flagged,  Romaine 
Said  :   "  Beauty  has  no  charms  for  you,  'tis  plain  ! 
How  long  could  you  remain  here,  cousin  mine, 
Without  one  glance  to  give  that  face  divine  ?" 

Adelaide  started,  turned  and  looked  askance 
Upon  the  portrait,  with  a  darkling  glance, 
As  if  on  something  hateful  to  her  view. 

"  The  sweetest  face  tjiat  ever  painter  drew  !  " 
Romaine  continued.      "Cousin,  on  my  word, 
I  credit  not  a  whisper  I  have  heard 
Against  Blanche  Aubray.     Such  a  girl  must  be 
As  bright  as  light,  true  as  fidelity!  " 

"  Blanche  Aubray  is  a  woman,  now  ;  'tis  long 
Since  that  was  painted." 

' '  She  has  had  great  wrong ! 
What  if  she  were  an  abolitionist  ? 
Should  she,  for  such  a  cause,  be  so  dismissed 
From  home  and  friends?     The  better,  if 'tis  true! 
Love,  honor,  reverence,  are  still  more  her  due, 


238  MARC  EL  LA. 

At  least,  from  Northern — " 

"  Cease  !  "  the  lady  cried  : 

"  That  was  not  all !    There's  worse,  much  worse,  beside  ! 
Have  you  not  heard — " 

"Yes,  Adelaide!  I  know 

That  when  Blanche  Aubray  fled  from  shame  and  woe 
'Twas  said,  she  took  with  her  both  gems  and  gold 
Committed  to  her  care,  and  laces  old, 
And  priceless  manuscripts  of  unknown  age, 
And  other  trumpery.     I  burn  with  rage 
And  blush  with  shame,  to  think  of  calumny 
So  vile !  I  scorn  the  story  utterly  ! 
When  war  is  past,  and  order  comes  again," 
Thus  eagerly  resumed  the  young  Romaine, 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  warmly  flushing  cheek ; 
"This  beautiful,  this  injured  girl  I'll  seek — 
Yes,  I  will  seek  her  through  the  living  world !  " 
Adelaide  spoke  not,  but  her  lip  was  curled, 
And  she,  with  eyes  averted,  scornful  air, 
Turned  from  the  dark-eyed  portrait  with  gold  hair. 
But,  on  the  lady's  arm  her  cousin  laid 
His  hand,  and  pointing  to  the  picture,  said : 
"  You,  cousin — you  will  surely  join  with  me 
To  right  her  wrongs — " 

"  If  any  wrongs  there  be !  " 
Coldly  said  Adelaide.      "  You  dream,  Romaine! 
These  are  the  fancies  of  a  fevered  brain  : 
You  should  not  talk,  but  rest,  I  well  perceive. 


MAR  CELL  A. 


239 


I'll  see  you,  soon,  again." 

She  took  her  leave, 

And,  followed  by  Marcella,  left  the  place. 
Romaine  still  gazed  upon  the  pictured  face. 


CANTO  III. 


I. 

Two  weeks  went  by,  while,  racked  with  fever-pain 

And  sick  almost  to  dying,  lay  Romaine  : 

The  crisis  past ;  and  to  his  wasted  frame 

His  health  and  strength  once  more,  but  slowly,  came. 

Now,  Adelaide's  birthday  came ;  a  day  when  she 
Each  year  received  a  chosen  company  ; 
And  so,  though  ill  at  ease,  and  sad  at  heart, 
She  now  prepared  to  play  the  hostess'  part, 
Lest  prying  friends  and  neighbors  wonder  why 
She  did  not  entertain  as  formerly. 
The  feast  was  made  ;  the  flower-wreathed  rooms  below 
Were  filling  fast :  gay  words  and  laughter  flow  : 
But  a  "poor  cousin,"  whom  she  patronized, 
Received  the  lady's  guests ;  apologized, 
With  many  smiles,  for  Adelaide's  delay : 
And  the  good  natured  crowd  was  pleased  to  say- 
Adelaide,  of  this  birthday-feast  the  queen, 
Should  choose  her  time  to  join  the  festal  scene. 


MARC  EL  LA.  241 

II. 

Before  her  mirror  still  sate  Adelaide. 

Her  shining  hair  in  one  great  crowning-braid 

Marcella  gathered  :  two  escaping  curls 

Dropped  on  her  neck ;  and  strings  of  glistening  pearls 

Held  in  their  wreathing  lustre  every  fold 

Of  the  dark-gleaming  locks  of  chestnut-gold  : 

Pearls  ringed  her  snowy  throat,  her  slender  zone, 

And  at  each  ear  in  trembling  beauty  shone. 

Her  satin  robe,  (than  frozen  snow  more  white,) 

Fell  in  rich,  glittering  folds  and  curves  of  light ; 

And  on  her  breast  a  cluster-diamond  glows, — 

One  touch  of  fire  in  all  those  pearls  and  snows. 

III. 

Why  does  the  lady  linger  ?     Why  should  she 
Neglect  so  long  the  expectant  company 
Waiting  her  coming  in  the  rooms  below  ? 
Why  burns  upon  her  cheek  the  fever-glow 
That  gives  her  faultless  lip  its  scarlet  dye, 
And  lends  new  lustre  to  her  violet  eye  ? 

The  lady  sees,  within  the  mirror  wide, 

Her  own  bright  figure  and  her  maid's  beside. 

The  silver-tasseled  jacket  of  rich  blue, 

The  silken  turban  of  the  same  bright  hue, 

Became  Marcella's  form  of  airy  grace, 

And  heightened  the  dark  beauty  of  her  face ; 

And  bright  with  strange  emotion  was  the  glance 


242  MARCEL  LA. 

Fixed  on  her  lady's  mirrored  countenance. 

Reflected  in  the  mirror,  Adelaide 

Beheld  the  brilliant  beauty  of  her  maid, 

A  loveliness  that  into  shadow  threw 

Her  fairer  features  and  less  vivid  hue. 

The  lady  looked  upon  her  earnestly  : 

The  maid  returned  the  gaze  with  steadfast  eye. 

IV. 

"  Marcella  !  "  in  suppressed  and  trembling  tone 
Her  mistress  spoke.     "  Marcella!  it  is  known — 
Known  to  my  husband  that  Romaine  is  here ! 
My  brain  is  almost  wild  with  rage  and  fear ! 
Romaine,  my  cousin,  must  take  instant  flight — 
My  husband  will  be  here  to-morrow-night !  " 

"  Can  this  be  true?     How  have  you  been  betrayed?" 
"  I  know  not — but  'tis  true!  "  said  Adelaide. 
"  I  have  it  from  a  friend  I  cannot  doubt. 
Some  prying  wretch  has  traced  the  secret  out, 
Or,  King  himself,  perhaps — 

"  That  cannot  be!  " 

Replied  Marcella.      ' '  King  would  fain  be  free, 
And  would,  I  think,  be  always  blindly  true 
To  anything  that  wore  the  Yankee  blue.— 
The  major  comes,  you  say,  to-morrow-night?" 

"Yes!  Think  for  me — I  am  bewildered  quite, 
And  maddened  with  suspense !      Your  head  is  clear, 
And  cool,  and  calm  :  you  have  no  sense  of  fear ! 


MARC  ELL  A.  243 

You  know  my  cousin's  peril — and  for  me, 
Think  of  my  husband's  frantic  jealousy, 
Like  a  wild  fever  raging  in  his  blood : — 
Help ;  if  you  owe  me  love  or  gratitude  !  " 

"  Go  down  to  meet  the  assembled  company," 
Replied  Marcella,  "  and  leave  all  to  me. 
You  may  believe  me  fully,  when  I  say, 
All  that  I  owe  to  you  I  will  repay  !  " 

V. 

Not  one  among  her  guests  was  half  so  gay 

As  Adelaide,  queen  of  the  festal  day ; 

No  smiling  eye  gave  out  so  bright  a  glance ; 

No  foot  more  lightly  twinkled  through  the  dance ; 

And  none  more  fully,  freely  joined  than  she 

In  the  light  war  of  wit  and  raillery. 

Marcella's  keen,  cold  eye  took  in  the  scene 

As  near  the  door  she  stood ;  composed,  serene, 

As  if  love,  hatred,  jealous  anger,  were 

Nothing  to  any,  least  of  all  to  her. 

She  stood  not  with  the  servants  in  the  hall ; 

(Indeed,  she  mingled  not  with  them  at  all, 

At  any  time;  and  they,  with  hate  and  fear, 

Shrank  from  her  glittering  glance  and  brow  severe). 

Often,  within  the  parlors  Adelaide 

Required  attendance  of  her  favorite  maid ; 

And  there,  apart,  she  held  her  usual  place, 

With  well-assured  but  unobtrusive  grace. 


244  MARCELLA. 

VI. 

The  dances  ended,  wit  and  laughter  flowed  : 
Then  music  for  a  season  held  the  crowd. 
"  A  song!  "  they  all  petitioned  Adelaide. 
"  A  sad  or  merry  song  ?"    the  lady  said. 
Laughingly,  they  responded,  "  Glad  and  gay  ! 
We  would  forget  all  sorrow,  for  one  day  !  " 
Lightly  her  hands  across  the  harp-strings  glide, 
And  the  sweet  notes  flowed  like  a  rippling  tide. 

i. 

"  Merry  and  glad  are  the  days  we've  had, 

And  the  beautiful  months  in  going 
All  glide  along  like  sounds  of  song 

From  the  lips  of  music  flowing  ; 
The  song  of  Time  is  a  tuneful  rhyme, 
And  days,  like  bells  with  a  silver  chime, 
Ring  in  the  prime  of  flower-wreathed  Time, 
When  the  rose  of  life  is  glowing. 

2. 

Then  smile  to-day,  while  yet  you  may, 
Nor  from  the  future  borrow 

One  shade  of  fear :  when  joy  is  here, 
We  will  not  dream  of  sorrow  ! 

Beauty  is  here,  and  Love  is  near; 

The  stream  of  time  runs  nectar-clear, 

For  Hope  is  here,  and  Mirth  and  Cheer, 
To  sing  of  a  brighter  morrow  !  " 


M  ARC  ELL  A. 

This  song  was  at  the  closing  of  the  feast. 
Adelaide  smiled  on  the  last  parting  guest, 
And  turning,  met  Marcella's  gleaming  eye, 
To  which  excitement  gave  wild  brilliancy. 
' '  Lady  !  I  have  a  word  for  your  own  ear : 
The  message  said,  to-morrow  will  bring  here 
Your  husband ;  but  the  word  was  not  aright : 
Madame,  your  husband  will  be  here  this  night ! 
You  may  rely  on  me  that  this  is  true. 
We  must  do  quickly  what  we  have  to  do ! 
Go  to  your  room ;  and  do  not  yet  despair  ! 
In  a  few  moments  I  will  join  you  there." 

VII. 

Within  her  room  not  long  the  lady  sate, 
In  wild  suspense  her  slave's  approach  to  wait; 
Although,  in  moments  of  such  agony, 
An  hour  is  foretaste  of  eternity. 
At  last,  Marcella  came — ah,  no,  not  she ! 
Rather,  some  fiend  of  subtle  mockery. 
Still  on  her  head  the  gaudy  turban  shines, 
And  dark  above  the  straight,  black  eye-brow-lines 
The  silken  fringe  of  jetty  ringlets  lies, 
Shading  the  cruel  splendors  of  her  eyes; 
But  from  her  cheek  the  dusky  bloom  has  flown, 
And  whither  has  the  brown  complexion  gone  ? 
Throughout  the  world,  the  eye  might  vainly  seek 
A  whiter  rose  than  lies  on  that  smooth  cheek  ; 


246  MARC  EL  LA. 

Her  throat,  her  slender  hands,  are  pure  as  snow, 
And  lilies  are  no  fairer  than  her  brow. 

Upsprang  with  beating  heart,  pale  Adelaide  ! 
Trembling,   aghast,  she  looked  upon  the  maid. 
"  Do  you  not  know  me  yet  ?  "  Marcella  said  : 
"  Do  not  my  voice,  complexion,  all — proclaim, 
Before  I  utter  it,  my  hated  name  ? 

V  1 1 1 . 

' '  Of  all  the  wretches  born,  I  do  believe 
Deceivers  are  the  easiest  to  deceive ! 
You  thought  I  was  Marcella,  in  good  sooth?1 
Never  so  much  as  dimly  guessed  the  truth  ? 
Your  grateful  slave,  the  fond,  the  true,  the  tried, 
For  three  long  years  was  ever  at  your  side ; 
In  all  that  time  did  no  responsive  chord 
Thrill  to  my  touch  ?  Did  no  half-uttered  word, 
No  trick  of  voice,  of  movement  shape,  or  eye, 
Arouse  your  doubt  or  wake  your  memory? 
Could  you  believe,  a  slave  who  once  had  earned 
Her  freedom,  ever  truly  could  have  yearned 
For  bondage,  or  would  freely  take  the  chain 
And  willingly  lift  up  the  cross  again  ? 
Natural !  to  give  up  life's  best  hopes ;  to  brave 
The  lash,  the  living  death,  to  be — your  slave'. 

"Yet,  I  remember  in  your  blooming  youth, 
You  had  one  friend  who  worshiped  you  in  truth  ! 


MARCELLA.  247 

A  friend,  who,  blinded  by  your  matchless  art 
Gave  you  her  fullest  trust,  her  inmost  heart : 
Faith,  trust,  and  boundless  love  to  you  she  gave, 
And  would  have  been — she  was — your  willing  slave  ! 
The  Present  shall  take  hands  with  that  dead  Past  — 
Behold  your  much-loved,  long-lost  friend,  at  last !  " 

IX. 

She  raised  the  silken  turban  from  her  head, 
And  with  it  came  the  fringe  of  curls  :  instead 
Of  crispy,  jet-black  ringlets,  fold  on  fold 
Lay  massive  coils  of  hair  of  palest  gold, 
Above  a  noble  forehead,  broad  and  high, 
And  smoothly  white  as  polished  ivory. 
She  loosened  the  rich  hair,  that  falling  spread 
In  silky  fleece,  a  mass  of  golden  thread  ; 
In  lovely  length  and  peerless  quantity, 
It  hung,  a  glittering  veil,  from  brow  to  knee. 

"Of  fortune,  friends,  and  reputation  shorn, 
You  sent  me  from  the  house  where  I  was  born  ! 
Not  for  lost  wealth  I  grieve  :  to  prove  you  true, 
I  would  have  yielded  home  and  fortune,  too, 
Though  the  least  flower  that  grows  on  Aubray  land 
Is  more  to  me  than  you  can  understand. 
You  stole  the  heart  whose  love  had  been  to  me 
Even  as  a  mother's,  from  my  infancy ; 
Poisoned  her  doting  mind  with  the  belief 
That  I  was  what  j0#  were — and  are — a  thief! 


248  MARC  EL  LA. 

You  turned  her  love  to  hate ;  and,  more  than  all, 
You  turned  my  own  heart's  blood  to  bitterest  gall ! 

X. 

"  Some  women  to  a  lover  give  the  heart 
In  their  fond  youth;  some  choose  the  better  part, 
And  yield  to  heaven  the  adoration  due ; 
But  all  adore  some  god,  or  false,  or  true  ; 
All  have  an  idol  at  whose  shrine  they  bend — 
•         /  worshiped  not  a  lover,  but  a  friend! 

"  '  Pity'  and  '  pardon  '  you  ?  Why,  so  I  do ! 

I  stand,  now,  on  the  same  low  plane  with  you, 

And  so  we  two  on  equal  terms  can  meet. 

I  meant  that  you  should  lie  thus  at  my  feet, 

Like  the  crushed  worm  you  are ;  and  I  meant,  too, 

To  strike  you  through  the  life  most  dear  to  you ; 

To  see  you  drink  of  that  envenomed  bowl 

Which  /  have  drained  in  bitterness  of  soul ! 

But,  shall  your  wretched  influence  destroy 

Two   bright  young  lives  ?     No !  I  will  save  this  boy  ! 

Many,  as  hard,  as  shallow-brained  as  you, 

In  their  own  way,  would  brand  me  as  untrue 

To  my  own  land,  and  traitorous  to  the  South, 

In  snatching  thus  from  death  a  Northern  youth ; 

And  there  are  others,  on  the  Union  side, 

Who  for  this  deed  would  hold  me  glorified. 

But  country,  patriotism,  State,  and  all 

Such  sounding  echoes  from  the  dead  Past  fall 

Idly  upon  my  ear  :     I  stand  alone  : 


MAR  CELL  A.  249 

Home,  brotherhood,  or  country,  I  have  none! 
And,  if  I  save  Romaine,  'tis  not,  in  truth, 
Because  I  love,  or  hate,  the  North,  or  South  : 
/,  homeless,  nameless,  loveless — what  to  me 
Is  any  Union  or  Confederacy  ? 

"  Heed  what  I  say  !  To-night,  your  angry  lord 

Will  search  the  house.     I  pledge  an  Aubray's  word, 

That  he  shall  find  me  in  that  secret  room, 

And  not  your  Northern  cousin.     I  presume, 

Unless  your  talents  for  intrigue  are  lost, 

You'll* frame  some  specious  tale:  count  not  the  cost 

To  me — but  ///«/,  I  know,  you  will  not  do  : 

Say  what  you  will,  and  I'll  a'vouch  it  true. 

Tell  him,  Blanche  Aubray  is  the  hidden  spy — 

Or  say  what  pleases  you  :  I'll  naught  deny. 

XI. 

"  I'm  strangely  cold  and  weary,  and  I  long 
Only  for  rest :  remembrance  of  my  wrong 
Fades,  in  this  strange  indifference  of  my  mind, 
And  hate  is  dead  as  love  and  hope.     I  find 
Revenge  not  sweet  but  tasteless.     You,  no  doubt, 
Had  you  begun  this  game,  would  play  it  out ! 
You  won  a  deeper  game,  in  days  gone  by — 
Played  for  high  stakes,  and  won  by  treachery. 
I  am  ashamed,  not  that  I  loved,  at  first, 
But,  that  through  long  and  weary  years  I've  nursed 
So  great  a  hatred  for  so  small  a  thing ! 


MARCELLA. 

Thin  streams  must  flow  from  such  a  feeble  spring ; 

Yet,  from  this  brackish  well  I  sought,  (poor  fool !) 

Sweet  waters,  healing  as  Siloam's  pool ! 

You  won  the  stake  you  played  for  in  your  youth, 

And  yet,  I  do  not  envy  you,  in  truth ! 

Three  years,  your  daily  life  I've  closely  scanned; 

Your  panting  heart  lies  naked  in  my  hand ; 

And  a  base  heart  it  is,  whose  every  beat 

Is  thick  with  servile  fear  or  planned  deceit. 

Too  meanly  selfish,  far  too  cold  and  faint, 

For  a  great  sinner  or  a  gracious  saint, 

Conscience  and  soul  you  have,  but  each  so  small, 

It  were  far  better  you  had  none,  at  all : 

Too  weak  to  be  restraints   they  keep  your  will 

Swaying  uneasily  from  good  to  ill, 

And  false  to  everything.     I  would  not  be 

The  thing  you  are,  for  heaven's  eternity  !  " 

XII. 

She  ceased.     There  came,  down  the  long  avenue, 
The  sound  of  trampling  hoofs,  that  nearer  drew ; 
Then  shouts,  and  baying  dogs,  and  mingling  noise. 

"They  come — he  comes  !     I  hear  my  husband's  voice  !  " 
Cried  frantic  Adelaide;  and,  kneeling,  flung 
Her  arms  around  Blanche  Aubray's  knees,  and  clung 
With  upturned  features  whiter  than  the  dead. 


MAR  CELL  A,  251 

"  Blanche  !  Dearest  Blanche!   Save  him!   But  now,  you 

said 
You'd  save  Romaine,  but  how — " 

"  The  cellar-stair 

Is  guarded,  but  there  is  a  pass  elsewhere. 
I  know  this  house — ah  !  none  so  well  as  I  ! 
My  life  for  his,  your  kinsman  shall  not  die ! 
Time  presses — smooth  that  face  to  meet  your  lord, 
And,  for  the  rest,  you  have  Blanche  Aubray's  word !  " 

She  said  :   and  passing  quickly  from  the  room, 
Vanished,  amid  the  long  hall's  dusky  gloom. 

XIII. 

This  scene,  of  such  importance  to  Romaine, 
Passed  while  the  midnight  hour  was  on  the  wane, 
When,  in  the  secret  room's  security, 
And  all  unconscious  of  the  danger  nigh, 
He  rested,  safe  but  lonely.     All  day  long, 
And  half  the  night,  came  softened  sounds  of  song, 
Music,  and  laughter,  from  the  rooms  below  : 
He  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  that  come  and  go, 
And  voices  of  the  merry  groups  that  rove 
Through  the  gay  garden  and  the  lighted  grove ; 
He  felt  the  floor  vibrate  to  dancing  feet, 
When  harp  and  violin,  in  concert  sweet, 
Made  music  thrilling  to  the  youthful  heart : 
And  then,  he  heard  the  merry  guests  depart, 


MARCEL  LA. 

With  laughter,  jest,  and  mingling  voices  gay, 
And  rolling  wheels,  that  echoed  far  away. 

This  later,  slighter  noise,  of  trampling  steed 
And  barking  dogs,  he  did  not  hear,  or  heed. 
Looking  upon  the  picture's  radiant  face, 
Romaine  stood  dreaming  of  poor  Blanche.     His  gaze 
Was  fixed  so  long,  the  wavering  sight  grew  dim, 
And  the  bright  form  seemed  gliding  off  from  him, — 
Wavered,  and  moved,  and  paused.     It  could  not  be- 
But,  yes,  it'  moved,  it  trembled  visibly. 
Half  startled,  he  beheld  the  portrait  glide 
Steadily  to  the  left :  an  opening  wide 
Led  to  the  outer  air,  for  he  could  feel 
Cool  winds  of  midnight  through  the  apartment  steal. 
But,  in  this  open  window  suddenly 
A  phantom  seemed  to  stand :  such  it  must  be; 
Or  had  the  enchanted  portrait  left  its  place  ? 
There  was  the  white-rose  beauty  of  the  face, 
The  bright  redundance  of  the  matchless  hair — 
But  not  the  portrait's  eyes  that  glittered  there ! 

XIV. 

Startled  beyond  his  self-control,  the  youth 
Half-thought  he  saw  a  spirit-form,  in  truth ; 
And,  part  in  awe,  and  part  in  ecstasy. 
With  hands  extended,  sank  upon  his  knee. 


MARC  ELL  A.  2 

"Rise!  rise,  I  pray  you,  sir!     You  have  no  time 

For  raptures  or  heroic  pantomime. 

Speak  not,  but  listen  !     You  must  flee,  this  night, 

From  Aubray.     To  direct  and  aid  your  flight, 

The  faithful  King  your  journey  shall  attend. 

If  you  in  Northern  lands  should  prove  his  friend, 

I  will  account  it  service  done  to  me. — 

(I  am  Blanche  Aubray,  whom  your  chivalry 

So  lately  burned  to  serve).     Beyond  the  mere 

Fleet  horses  wait  your  coming.     Stay  not  here ! 

Never  was. there  more  danger  in  delay — 

Death  tracks  you  as  a  sleuth-hound  tracks  his  prey!  " 

"Strange  being  !     And  as  beautiful  as  strange  ! 
I  am  not  blinded  by  'this  wondrous  change ; 
Those  are  Marcella's  eyes,  though  softened  so, — 
And,  more  than  all,  Marcella's  voice  I  know, 
For  never  voice  had  such  a  golden  ring 
Since  birds  of  Paradise  have  ceased  to  sing ! 
Blanche  Aubray  ?     Where,  then,  is  the  soul  that  lies 
In  the  soft  radiance  of  the  pictured  eyes  ? 
Why  this  deception  ?     Why  this  mean  disguise  ?  " 

"  Disguise  is  at  an  end  with  me;  but  you 
Must  wear  one  yet,  to  help  you  safely  through 
A  journey  of  such  peril.     Come  !     Once  more 
Trust  to  my  guidance,  as  you  did  before. 
Trust  me !     With  confidence  this  claim  I  make, 


254  MAR  CELL  A. 

Not  for  my  own  but  for  Blanche  Aubray's  sake, 
The  artist's  vision,  there,  in  oil  and  paint, 
That  your  young  fancy  worshiped  as  a  saint." 

"  But  you,  Marcella — do  you  not  incur 

Danger,  if  I  should  fly  ?     I  should  prefer 

Death  at  the  hangman's  hands,  if  I  but  thought — 

"There  is  no  danger,  save  to  you  !     Speak  not, 
But  go!     For  every  moment  that  you  stay, 
You  throw  ten  chances  for  your  life  away !  " 

XV. 

She  caught  his  arm,  and  drew  him  hurriedly 
Through  the  wide  window  to  a  balcony 
All  shadowed  in  the  wreathing  trumpet-vines, 
Through  whose  thick  sprays  the  full  moon  faintly  shines. 
Then  the  thick  vines  were  parted,  and  a  voice 
Breathed  low  :   "  Miss  Blanche  !  " 

"  Make  not  the  slightest  noise  !  " 

She  answered  King,  as  low.      "  Here's  gold  for  you — 
Be  faithful,  free,  and  prosperous.     Adieu  !" 

Through  the  half-parted  vines,  Romaine  can  see 
A  ladder  placed  against  the  balcony. 
To  this  she  motioned  him.      He  looked  again, 
With  a  strange  thrill  of  tenderness  and  pain, 
Upon  the  sad,  bright  being  at  his  side, 


MARC  ELL  A.  255 

And  tried  to  speak,  and  twice  in  vain  he  tried. 
At  last,  he  took  her  hand  in  both  his  own : 
"Marcella!"  he  began  with  faltering  tone; 
"Blanche  Aubray !  your  past  life  I  cannot  trace, 
But  suffering  has  made  grand  that  lovely  face : 
Ah,  deep,  indeed,  your  sorrow  must  have  been, 
Not  through  your  own,  but  through  another's  sin ! 
I  partly  guess  the  truth — yet,  I  implore, 
That  for  past  wrong  you  seek  revenge  no  more ! 
You  shall  have  justice,  be  it  soon  or  late. — 
Tell  me,  should  /  add  to  your  sorrow's  weight, 
Or  bring  on  you  some  danger  by  my  flight  ? 
If  so,  I  should  far  rather  die  this  night ! " 

"  By  your  delay  my  sufferings  are  increased; 

()  let  me  save  your  bright  young  life,  at  least ! 

I  see  you  young  and  hopeful ;  think  you  true ; 

Modest,  I  know,  and  gentle-hearted,  too. — 

No  longer  here  the  flying  moments  waste, 

But  leave  this  place  at  once,  and  that  with  haste ! " 

He  kissed  with  reverent  lips  the  hand  that  lay 
Cold  in  his  own ;  and,  turning,  went  his  way. 
Breathless,  she  watched  and  waited,  till  she  knew 
They  were  beyond  the  mere.      Deep  breath  she  drew 
When  the  wild  signal-cry,  the  whippowil, 
Three  times  resounded  from  the  Cedar  Hill : 
Then  she  regained,  once  more,  the  secret  room, 
And  waited  there,  in  darkness  and  in  gloom. 


256  MARCELLA. 

XVI. 

Meanwhile,  with  heart  and  spirit  all  aflame 

With  jealous  anger.  Major  Lovelace  came 

To  his  wife's  chamber.      Adelaide  arose : 

Her  features  she  had  masked  in  forced  repose. 

Had  stilled  her  trembling  lips,  and  to  her  eyes 

Called  up  a  look  of  pleasure  and  surprise. 

But  he,  with  flushing  brow  and  "eye  of  death," 

Cried :   "Stay  !  No  nearer  come  !  and  spare  your  breath 

The  littering  of  falsehoods :  all  too  late 

They  come,  to  save  your  lover  from  his  fate ! " 

"  My  lover  !     Do  you  speak  these  words  to  me  ? — 
And  wherefore  come  you  home  so  suddenly, 
And  in  such  anger?" 

"  Adelaide,  be  wise  ! 
Useless  is  falsehood,  vain  is  artifice. 
1  know  that  you  have  hidden  in  this  house, 
For  two  weeks  space,  at  least,  my  loyal  spouse ! 
A  Yankee  spy — 

"  Not  so  !  my  cousin,  sir  ! 
I  do  confess,  my  cousin  now  is  here, 
As  you  perhaps  have  heard  ; — 

"  Then  you  deny 
That  you  have  hidden  here  a  Northern  spy  ?  " 


MAR  CELL  A.  257 

"  Indeed,  I  do  deny  it!" 

' '  We  shall  see  ! 
That  hidden  room  shall  open  presently — " 

"The  sooner,  Charles,  the  better,  too,  for  me! 
But,  heed  well  what  you  do — perhaps  you  may 
Regret  both  word  and  deed,  another  day  ! 
Soon,  you  will  know  who  is  the  '  hidden  spy ' 
Whose  presence  here  has  raised  your  wrath  so  high." 

"  Give  me  the  hall-key!  for  I  fain  would  s-ee," 
He  said,  "  Your  hidden  treasure. — Follow  me  I" 
At  these  last  words,  he  opened  wide  the  door; 
And  through  the  soft,  luxurious  chamber  pour 
Unwonted  guests :  two  rough,  strong  men  in  grey, 
Confederate  soldiers,  forward  lead  the  way ; 
A  group  of  servants  following  silently, 
Scared,  but  agape  with  curiosity. 

.       XVII. 

The  hall  had,  at  one  end,  a  winding  stair 

Above  a  long,  wide  closet.     Pausing  there— 

"A  soldier  guards,"  said  Lovelace,  "  that  small  door 

That  leads  into  the  cellar;  on  this  floor 

There  is  no  entrance  to  this  secret  .den 

Save  through  this  closet.     Stand  here,  you  two  men, 

And,  on  your  lives,  let  not  a  soul  pass  through 

Till  I  command.     But  all  the  rest  of  you 


MARCEL  LA. 

Into  this  closet  follow  me." 
They  did, 

Eager  to  see  the  apartment  so  long  hid, 
Park  Aubray's  "ghost-room."     Superstition  said, 
Each  night  the  spirits  of  the  Aubray  dead 
There  held  high  revel ;  for,  as  midnight  came, 
Each  Aubray  portrait,  stepping  from  its  frame, 
To  the  long-hidden  ghost-room  hied  away, 
And  reveled  there  until  the  dawning  day. 

Lovelace  walked  first,  and  Adelaide  came  last : 
With  head  erect  and  haughty  step  she  passed. 
Bright  were  the  deep-blue  eyes,  for  shining  there 
Was  the  dark,  dangerous  courage  of  despair ; 
And  all  the  clustered  diamonds  on  her  breast 
Trembled  and  sparkled  to  its  wild  unrest.  • 

XVII  I. 

They  reached  the  portal  of  the  hidden  room, 
And,  with  a  blow  fierce  as  the  stroke  of  doom, 
Lovelace  burst  in  the  door.     Then  forward  sprung 
A  figure  to  resist  him— lightly  flung 
A  veil  before  his  eyes — and  from  his  hand 
Struck  down  the  light.     All  in  thick  darkness  stand, 
Confused  and  frightened,  though  they  see  not  who 
Or  what  put  out  the  light ;  but  Lovelace  drew 
His  pistol,  as  enraged  he  shouted:   "Yield  ! 
Coward,  the  darkness  shall  not  be  your  shield!" 


MARCELLA.  259 

The  light  was  stricken  from  his  hand,  but  not 

Before  the  eye  a  golden  gleam  had  caught, 

Shining  against  rich  blue,  which,  sure,  must  be 

The  gold-laced  garment  of  his  enemy  ; 

And,  maddening  at  the  thought,  he  did  not  stay 

For  light,  but  rushed  straight  forward :  in  his  way 

He  almost  fell  against  a  form  that  tried 

To  shun  his  grasp,  but  vainly.      "  Yield  !"  he  cried  ; 

"Speak!  or  I  shoot  you  where  you  stand!" 

A  shriek 
From  Adelaide  rang  through  the  apartment. 

"  Speak  !" 

Again  cried  Lovelace.      Leaving  in  his  clasp 
A  silken  sash,  the  figure  fled  his  grasp. 
Then  rang  a  pistol-shot — a  flash — a  fall — 
Then  one  faint  groan — a  sob — and  that  was  all. 
Silence  and  darkness. 

"  Haste  to  bring  a  light!" 
Said  Lovelace      All  was  wonder  and  affright, 
And,  some  wild  moments,  dire  confusion  reigned; 
But,  each,  with  torch  or  candle  armed,  regained 
His  courage,  and  pressed  forward  to  that  room, 
Forever  after  cursed  with  triple  gloom. 

XIX. 

For,  veiled  in  rich  profusion  of  bright  hair, 
It  was  a  woman  who  lay  dying  there, 
A  woman  whom,  at  once,  all  recognize. 


260  MAR  CELL  A. 

Silent,  they  gasp  with  horror  and  surprise, 
As  crowding  torches  pour  a  fiery  flood 
Upon  Blanche  Aubray  and  the  welling  blood 
That  flowed  amain  with  every  shortening  breath  : 
The  soldiers  paled,  though  used  to  look  on  death. 
Beneath  her  own  young  portrait,  fallen  she  lay ; 
And  to  that  pictured  form  the  flickering  play 
Of  light  and  shadow  seeming  motion  lent, 
As  if  her  guardian  seraph  o'er  her  bent; 
In  such  unchanging  loveliness  it  stands, 
Like  a  bright  visitant  from  heavenly  lands, 
Waiting  to  share  immortal  youth  and  peace 
With  the  twin-soul  that  death  must  soon  release. 

Aghast  at  his  own  work,  her  slayer  stood 

Spell-bound,  and  gazed  upon  the  welling  blood ; 

Then,  as  a  cry  of  horror  and  amaze 

Broke  from  his  pallid  lips,  he  strove  to  raise 

The  dying  girl, — but  "  No;  "  she  gently  said  ; 

"  I  am  already  numbered  with  the  dead, 

So  let  me  part  in  peace." 

He  knelt,  and  took 

Her  icy  hand  in  one  as  cold,  which  shook, 
As  hers  did  not. 

"If  you,"  she  said,  "would  have 
Forgiveness  for  this  deed,  one  boon  I  crave, 
My  last  request." 

"  Oh  Blanche,  you  must  not  die  ! 


MARCELLA.  261 

Ask  what  you  will— but  yield  not  thus !  Oh,  try, 

For  my  sake,  try  to  call  back  life  again, — 

Oh  heaven  !  to  bear  the  heavy  curse  of  Cain  ! " 

She  turned  on  him  her  deep  and  solemn  eye : 
' '  As  you  hope  mercy,  seek  not  to  know  why 
You  find  me  at  Park  Aubray ;  nor  upbraid 
With  this  night's  work  my  cousin  Adelaide." 

He  could  not  answer  her  in  words,  but  pressed 
Her  small,  cold  hand  against  his  troubled  breast. 

XX. 

But,  now,  with  reeling  step,  wild  Adelaide 

Came  forward.      "  Let  me  speak  with  her! "  she  said. 

"  For  heaven's  love,  let  me  speak  with  her  alone ! " 

They  all  drew  back  ,  even  Lovelace ;  so  that  none 

Might  hear.    With  trembling  hand  she  strove  to  staunch. 

The  fatal  wound  with  the  long  hair  of  Blanche 

' '  I  have  not  murdered  you  ?  Oh  try  to  live ! 

Blanche,  you  once  loved — have  saved  me — Oh,  forgive  I 

A  momentary  gleam  of  faint  surprise 

Came  o'er  Blanche  Aubray's  face  :  she  raised  her  eyes : 

Her  whole  heart-history  was  in  that  gaze — 

The  boundless  love,  the  trust  of  other  days ; 

Then,  a  wild  look  of  bitter  agony 

Shone  in  strange  splendor  from  the  speaking  eye, 

An  agony  whose  fullness  none  might  guess : 

And  then,  a  look'of  utter  weariness. 

18 


262  MARCELLA. 

Upon  the  calm,  pale  features  slowly  grows 
That  still,  sad  fixedness  of  deep  repose ; 
On  the  dark  eyes  the  weary  eyelids  fall, 
And  Death's  pale  shadow  settles  over  all. 

The  sunrise  through  the  open  window  came, 
Filling  the  room  with  its  pale-rosy  flame. 
It  tinged  the  portrait  rosy-red,  and  flushed 
The  dead  girl's  cheek,  as  if  she  faintly  blushed  ; 
Brightened  the  calm,  broad  brow,  so  deadly-fair, 
And  glittered  on  the  shroud  of  golden  hair — 
That  wondrous  growth  of  flossy  gold,  that  shone 
Even  now,  with  life  and  lustre  all  its  own ; 
But  the  strong  soul  that  loved  and  suffered  so 
Had  fled  to  its  eternal  weal  or  woe. 

END  OF    MARCELLA. 


NOTES  TO  MARCELLA. 


CANTO  I. 

1.  IV.      "  A  grove  of  Spanish  oaks,  whose  branches  threw." 
The  tree  called  Spanish-oak  in  Piedmont-Virginia,  seems 

0 

rather  to  be  the  Quercus  coccinea  of  botanists ;  a  beautiful  oak, 
noted  for  its  rich,  glossy-green  leaves,  which  turn  bright  crim 
son  in  autumn. 

2.  VII.      "  And  low-born  culture  eyed  with  calm  disdain.'" 

It  is  well  known  that  an  overweening  pride  of  birth  was 
the  most  prominent  weakness  of  the  blue-blood  families  of 
Virginia;  a  pride  that  scorned  mere  wealth  ;  and,  while  regard 
ing  talent  or  culture  with  more  respect  than  riches,  yet,  there 
were  certain  defects  of  birth  for  which  not  the  greatest  genius 
or  highest  culture  could  compensate.  All  the  true  aristocrats 
of  the  Old  Dominion,  however,  did  not  carry  this  family 
pride  to  such  length. 

3.  XI.      "An  abolitionist." 

To  those  who  understand  anything  of  the  feeling  of  the 
Old  South  toward  an  abolitionist — synonym  for  incendiary, 
conspirator,  spy,  and  even  infidel,  in  the  Southern  vocabu 
lary — it  will  not  seem  surprising  that  a  person  supposed  to  be 
in  league  with  abolitionists,  or  to  hold  abolition  doctrines — 
as  Southrons  believed  them — it  cannot  be  surprising,  we 


264  MAR  CELL  A. 

repeat,  or  at  all  unnatural  that  the  suspected  person  should 
be  disgraced  and  ostracized  both  by  personal  friends  and  the 
general  public.  Two  such  cases,  one  of  great  cruelty,  are 
known  by  the  author  to  have  occurred  just  before  the  late 
Civil  War.  The  continual  and  most  terrible  fear  of  an  insur 
rection  is  one  of  the  innumerable  woes  and  curses  attending 
on  slavery — a  fear  affecting  equally  the  guilty  and  the  inno 
cent,  pro-slavey  slave-holders,  and,  not  less,  anti-slavery 

inheritors  of  slaves. 

CANTO  II. 

1 .  III.      "  Trembled  across  the  mere. " 

Mere  is  a  name  very  commonly  given,  in  the  Piedmont 
section  of  Virginia,  to  a  winding  body  of  water,  too  still  and 
sluggish  for  a  creek,  too  narrow  and  meandering  for  a  pond. 
As  most  of  the  streams  in  that  hilly  region  are  torrents,  and 
most  pools  either  valley-lakes  or  mountain-tarns,  a  mere  is  not 
commonly  seen,  unless  artificially  produced,  for  picturesque 
effect,  on  ornamented  plantations  of  the  extinct  class  of  aris 
tocratic  planters. 

2.  III.     "  Wild  ivy." 

Piedmont  name  for  kalmia  laurel. 

3.  IV.      "Sweet-brake 

A  species  of  wood-fern,  beautiful,  and  very  fragrant; 
often  called  sweet-fern,  but  not  the  sweet-fern  proper. 

4.  X.      "  Not  like  a  common  slave  was  she  arrayed. 
Marcella's  costume,  which  might  well  be  considered  too 

rich  and  Oriental  for  Virginia,  was  copied  from  the  attire  of 
a  young  quadroon,  worn  during  the  war;  except  that  blue  has 


MARCELLA.  265 

been  substituted  for  crimson,  in  the  colors.  It  was  the  tim  e 
of  zouave  jackets,  semi-military  gilt  buttons,  tinsel  braid,  etc.; 
and  no  slave's  costume  was  complete  without  as  rich  a  turban 
as  she  could  procure.  The  graceful  and  picturesque  turban, 
however,  has  disappeared  with  slavery. 

CANTO  III. 
i.      VIII.      "  You  thought  I  was  Marcella,  in  good  sooth  ?  " 

Such  a  deception  as  here  shown  was  easy  enough  to  be 
practiced  on  the  owner  of  several  plantations — or  even  one 
large  one — containing  hundreds  of  slaves,  neither  knowing 
the  master  nor  known  by  him.  Indeed,  slaves  on  these 
inherited,  over-stocked  plantations,  (crowded  with  negroes  of 
all  ages,)  usually  knew  their  master  by  sight  much  more  fre 
quently  than  the  master  could  possibly  know  the  slave.  The 
supposed  deception  could  be  carried  on  with  scarcely  a  possi 
bility  of  suspicion,  if,  as  in  the  case  of  Marcella,  the  fugitive 
had  fled  while  yet  not  grown,  remained  away  years,  and 
returned — as  imagined — not  to  the  plantation  where  she  had 
been  known  as  a  child,  but  to  a  mistress  who  had  never  seen 
her,  among  servants  who,  if  they  had  ever  seen,  had  certainly 
no  familiar  knowledge  of  her  person  or  disposition.  In  per 
sonating  Marcella,  Blanche  had  but  to  thoroughly  disguise 
herself. 


WILD  IRIS: 


OTHER  RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH. 


WILD  IRIS  AND  OTHER  RHYMES. 

WILD  IRIS. 
(1862.) 

The  iris  in  the  Southland  opens  early : 

When  the  first  hint  of  green  the  willows  take, 
The  leafless  alders  hang  their  tassels  merely, 

Till  spice  and  maple  in  the  March  winds  shake, 

And  the  azalea  reddens  all  the  brake; 
Then  the  magnolia-buds  grow  round  and  pearly, 

And  the  wild  iris  blossoms  by  the  lake. 

O  beautiful  blue  iris !  best  and  dearest, 

Save  the  wild  ivy,*  of  all  vernal  bloom! 
Not  winter's  chill  nor  wild  spring-rain  thou  fearest, 

N.or  rush  of  swollen  torrents,  white  with  foam; 

For,  by  the  brooklet  is  thy  chosen  home, 
And  all  the  lowlands  flush  when  thou  appearest, 

With  heart  of  gold  beneath  an  azure  plume. 

Who,  that  has  seen  the  Southern  meadows  glowing 
With  iris,  brighter  than  the  bluebird's  wing, 

-.:••"  Wild  ivy,"  /',  e.,  the  kalmia  laurel,  called  "wild  ivy"  throughout  Virginia  and 
North  Carolina,  where,  also,  one  species  of  azalea  is  known  only  as  "  wild  honey 
suckle  "  The  common  wild  coral-honeysuckle,  a  true  honeysuckle,  they  have 
named  "woodbine." 


270  THE  RIVER. 

But  felt  his  heart  with  rapture  overflowing, 
And  blessed  the  Maker  of  so  fair  a  thing ! 
For,  who  loves  beauty  must  love  beauty's  King- 
Almighty  Monarch,  in  his  grace  bestowing 
Such  wealth  of  beauty  on  a  flower  of  spring. 

THE     RIVER. 

(June,  1858.) 

We  stood  upon  the  hill's  green  slope; 

A  moonlit  sky  was  smiling  o'er  us, 
And,  like  the  illusive  rays  of  hope, 

The  gleaming  fire-flies  danced  before  us  : 
There  gently  flowed  thy  rippling  tide, 

In  liquid  light,  with  restless  quiver ; 
Green  willows  grace  thy  winding  side, 

Bright-flowing  river. 

And  all  was  silence,  deep,  profound, 
Save  one  wild  horn,  by  distance  mellow, 

And  thine  own  soft  and  murmuring  sound, 
Rippling  around  the  isles  of  willow, 

Or  wild,  sweet  strain  that  o'er  thee  floats, 
To  die  away,  returning  never ; 

Mingling  with  thy  soft-swelling  notes, 

Murmuring  river ! 

O !  were  the  stream  of  time  like  thee, 


TO  MY  BROTHER.  271 

Whose  every  wavelet  sings  with  gladness, 
Could  sorrow,  as  the  moonbeams,  flee, 

Nor  leave  behind  one  trace  of  sadness — 
How  sweetly  could  our  frail  barque  rest 

Upon  such  crested  waves  forever, 
Or  float  on  such  a  shining  breast, 

Beautiful  river! 


TO    MY    BROTHER. 
(Oct.  15,  1859.) 

Do  you  remember,  when  the  twilight,  stealing 

Softly  around  our  childhood's  forest  home; 
And  the  young  crescent-moon,  her  form  revealing, 

Tipped  with  a  tender  light  the  yellow  broom — 
When  the  tall  pines,  their  fragrant  odors  blending, 

Sighed  gently  to  the  rocking  of  the  wind, 
How  far  our  gipsy  feet,  the  foot-path  wending, 

Left  dwelling-house  and  cabins  all  behind  ? 
Do  you  remember  ? 

Can  you  forget  how,  hand  in  hand,  we  wandered 
Through  fields  of  waving  wheat  and  tasseled  corn, 

And  gathered  fox-grapes  where  the  brook  meandered, 
Called  homeward  only  by  the  dinner-horn  ? 

Then,  the  old  mill — how  well  we  loved  its  clatter, 
And  its  great  wheel  with  steps  so  like  a  stair! 


272  TO  MY  BROTHER. 

How  would  I  strive,  in  childish  mirth,  to  scatter 
The  sparkling  water  on  your  soft,  brown  hair  ! 
Do  you  remember? 

And  the  fine  group  of  ruddy  maples,  drooping 

Their  rosy  clusters  o'er  our  dear  old  spring ; 
The  graceful  fringe-tree's  snowy  tassels,  stooping 

Their  trembling  shadows  on  the  brook  to  fling : 
And  the  steep  hill-side,  with  the  green  moss  spreading 

Its  velvet  cushion  in  our  favorite  nook  ! 
While  I  reclined  upon  its  bosom,  reading, 

You  fished  for  minnows  in  the  quiet  brook. 
Do  you  remember  ? 

And  when  the  summer's  garlands  all  had  faded, 

When  autumn's  gaudy  blossoms  ceased  to  bloom; 
When  leafless  boughs  no  more  our  footsteps  shaded, 

And  odorous  pines  made  sweet  the  forest  gloom ; 
How  did  we  wander  then,  so  wild  and  merry, 

Through  rustling  leaves,  and  naked,  pathless  wood, 
Seeking  the  holly  for  its  scarlet  berry, 

And  Solomon's  seal,  with  berries  red  as  blood. 
Do  you  remember  ? 

And  when  the  winter  nights  came,  chill  and  snowing, 
We  gathered  round  the  blazing  wood-fire  warm. 

And  heard  the  whistling  winds  so  roughly  blowing, 
And  the  wild  howling  of  the  outside  storm — 

We  played  our  simple,  childish  games,  and  nightly 


AMID   TH£  CORK,  273 

Related  wondrous  goblin-tales  of  fear ; 
Carved  pigmy  boats,  and  built  cob-houses  tightly, 
With  lightvvood  torches  for  our  chandelier! 
Do  you  remember  ? 

Three  years  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  am  sighing 

For  the  bright  days  that  can  return  no  more  : 
Bright  childhood  will  not  stay,  for  all  our  crying — 

But  flowery  paths  of  youth  are  on  before  ! 
Brother,  your  young  heart  still  retains  its  childhood ; 

And  all  the  pleasant  ways  we  used  to  roam, 
In  the  green  fields  and  through  the  bloomy  wildwood 

That  circled  round  our  early  forest-home, 
You  will  remember. 


AMID  THE  CORN. 
(Dec.  28th,    1859.) 

Amid  the  rows  of  rustling  corn, 

Whose  saber-leaves  so  lightly  swung, 
And  from  whose  tops,  that  dewy  morn, 

Silk  tassels  hung, 

They  sat;  and  the  old  chestnut-tree 

Over  the  corn-tops  cast  a  shade : 
Those  long,  white  blooms  how  gracefully 
The  light  wind  swayed  ! 


274  AMID   THE  CORN. 

They  wove  a  wreath  of  flowers  that  grew 

Within  that  grassy,  shaded  place, 
But  fairer  still,  to  Hubert's  view, 

Was  Linda's  face. 

Eyes  like  the  morning-glories  blue  ; 

Bright  as  the  corn-silk  was  her  hair : 
The  slipping  lizard  stopped  to  view 

A  face  so  fair  ! 

They  planned  their  future  golden  hours, 

With  glowing  hopes,  that  sunny  morn. 
And  braided  thick  the  wreath  of  flowers, 
Down  in  the  corn. 


Nine  years  have  passed :  he  stands  alone 

Where  last  he  sat  by  Linda's  side. 
How  many  hopes  have  come  and  gone, 

Have  bloomed  and  died  ! 

The  autumn-leaves  are  crisp  and  sear, 

The  yellow  grasses  softly  wave 
On  fields  that  spread,  all  bare  and  drear, 
Round  Linda's  grave  : 

The  chestnut  leaves  fall  slowly  down ; 

Over  the  withered  blooms  they  spread, 
And  weave  a  pall  of  gold-and-brown 

Above  the  dead. 


ELLEN.  275 

Sweet  Linda's  was  a  bitter  fate, 

And  death  in  kindness  to  her  came; 
And  Hubert  knows  the  price  (too  late) 

Of  earthly  fame. 

The  chain  they  linked  with  future  hours 

And  golden  hopes,  that  happy  morn, 
Has  faded  with  the  wreath  of  flowers, 

Down  in  the  corn. 

ELLEN. 

(Oct.,  1860.) 

The  poplar  waves  his  golden  crown 

Through  all  the  Indian-summer  day ; 

The  ruby  oak-leaves  shower  down 
Upon  the  grave  of  Ellen  Ray. 

A  purple  mist  is  in  the  air ; 

The  woods  are  bright  with  autumn's  dyes; 
The  windy  mountain-tops  are  bare  ; 

And  from  the  tree  the  rain-frog  cries. 

Her  grave  is  at  the  garden's  foot : 

The  weed-grown  flowers  have  run  to  waste ; 
And  wandering  vines  with  leaf  and  shoot 

Have  crossed  the  gate  and  bound  it  fast. 

Forsaken  the  lone  house  remains ; 

The  swallows  cluster  round  the  eaves, 


276  .  THE  LILY  QUEEN. 

And  o'er  the  shattered  window-panes 
Her  silver  web  the  spider  weaves. 

From  the  old  roof,  moss-grown  and  thin, 
Projects  a  window,  open   wide  ; 

And  dusky  bats  flit  out  and  in 

The  lonely  room  where  Ellen  died. 

Thick  bind-weeds  choke  the  path  she  made 
To  the  wood-fountain  clear  and  cool ; 

The  timid  hare  is  not  afraid 

To  drink  beside  the  dimpling  pool. 

The  black-snake's  glittering  folds  may  twine 
Beneath  the  jasmine  drooping  there, 

Whose  milk-white  blooms  were  wont  to  shine 
In  Ellen's  braids  of  dark-brown  hair. 

The  roses  that  she  loved  to  train 

Have  died  by  her  deserted  door : 

They  will  revive  with  summer's  rain, 
But  Ellen  Ray  will  wake  no  more. 

THE  LILY  QUEEN. 

(1861.) 

She  stood  in  the  flowering  forest, 

Alone  by  the  side  of  the  lakelet, 

Alone  in  the  wild,  haunted  wood. 
She  had  come  when  her  sorrow  was  sorest, 


THE  LILY  Q UEEN.  277 

For  one  effort  more  she  would  make  yet. 
To  hold  the  false  love,  to  make  good 
The  bond  that  no  power  could  break  yet. 

The  forest  lay  hushed  in  deep  silence : 

The  magical  charm  had  been  muttered ; 

The  wood-creatures  fled  in  alarm ; 
The  lake-lilies,  fairy-like  islands, 

Lay  lifeless ;  no  forest-bird  uttered 

A  warble  to  break  the  wild  charm  : 
No  leaf  on  the  lily-trees  fluttered. 

The  lily-queen  rises  in  brightness, 
Where  the  magnolia  is  throwing 

Shadows  on  water  and  land  : 
She  is  white  with  an  ivory  whiteness, 

And  fair  are  the  tresses  free-flowing  • 

She  holds  a  green  rod  in  her  hand, 
That  is  topped  by  a  lily  full-blowing. 

The  dark  eyes  are  liquidly  starry 

As  dew  in  the  sun ;  and  as  tender 

Her  voice  as  the  harp  of  the  breeze ; 
Such  is  the  wood-lily's  fairy, 

Such  the  magnolia's  defender ; 

She  lives  in  the  life  of  her  trees, 
And  shines  with  the  lily's  white  splendor. 

Magnolia,  the  queen  of  the  lilies, 

Spoke  mildly  to  Mona,  the  maiden  : 


278  THE  LILY  QUEEN. 

"  I  have  answered  thy  call — I  am  here 
And  well  do  I  know  what  thy  will  is  : 

Thou  art  pining  and  grieving,  love-laden, 

For  a  false  heart,  unworthy  a  tear, 
For  a  gift  that  thy  whole  life  would  sadden. 

"  But  thou  hast  loved  ever  the  forest, 

And  therefore  the  wood-spirits  love  thee : 

The  magic  I  will  not  refuse 
That  would  bring  back  the  youth  thou  adorest  ; 
But  dark  is  the  storm-cloud  above  thee ! 

Pause,  yet,  in  thy  folly,  and  choose — 
If  earnest  entreaties  may  move  thee — 

"  Of  two  gifts  we  hold  for  thy  choosing  : 
The  heart  of  a  lover  wide-ranging, 

A  winged  Love,  light  as  the  wind ; 
A  gift  where  the  winning  is  losing, 

The  love  of  a  mortal  quick  changing ; 
A  love  that  no  shackles  can  bind. 
No  kindness  can  keep  from  estranging. 

"  But  bright  is  the  next  gift  we  offer — 
A  life  and  a  being  like  ours  ! 

O  take  it,  and  with  us  rejoice !  . 
Bright  the  existence  we  proffer  ; 

Sweet  is  the  life  of  the  flowers  ! 

Take  it — and  blest  be  thy  choice, 
In  the  bliss  of  these  bloom-laden  bowers." 


THE  LILY  QUEEN.  279 

So  spake  the  queen-lily ;  and,  waving 
The  emerald  wand,  at  its  lifting 

The  flower-sprites  came  from  the  wood  : 
Sweet  Lotis,  the  water-nymph,  laving 

Her  limbs  in  the  water,  slow-drifting 

Came,  borne  on  the  breast  of  the  flood, 
With  pearls  through  her  white  fingers  sifting. 

The  slim  little  spice-fay,  Melissa, 

All  bright  in  her  necklace  of  coral ; 

Clematis,  with  snowy-white  wreath ; 
The  golden-haired  fairy,  Narcissa, 
And  Ivybell,  exquisite  laurel ; 

With  Gladiole,  dagger  in  sheath, 
And  Blanche,  the  sweet  sprite  of  the  sorrel — 

The  sprite  of  the  sorrel-tree,  whitest 

Of  wood  maidens,  pale  in  her  sweetness, 

Adorned  with  her  delicate  bells; 
Green  Holly,  with  coral-crown  brightest ; 
The  laurels,  in  classic  completeness  ; 

And,  crowned  with  her  pink-tinted  cells, 
Azalea,  exact  in  her  neatness  : 

Sweet  Redbud,  so  gently  inclining 

Her  head  with  its  purple-wreathed  tresses ; 
The  Locust,  with  honey-sweet  blooms  : 

Albrizzia,  with  silken  locks  shining; 

Acacia,  whom  sweetness  oppresses; 


280  THE  LILY  QUEEN. 

Mimosa,  whose  sensitive  plumes 
Shrink  back  from  the  light  wind's  caresses. 

Pomegranate,  of  blossoms  most  beauteous, 
And  fruits  of  the  rosiest  blooming ; 

Sweet  Silverbell,  whiter  than  snows  ; 
And  Orange,  with  berries  bright-luteus, 
And  breath  the  whole  forest  perfuming, 

And  bridal-white  garland,  that  shows 
Through  sprays  of  her  foliage  green-glooming. 

All  the  flowers,  from  the  Lily's  pale  beauty 
To  Eglantine,  lovely  in  blushes; 

All  the  tree-nymphs,  in  kirtles  of  green, 
From  the  Tulip,  who  came  to  her  duty 
As  prompt  as  the  smallest  of  bushes 

To  lovely  Chione  serene, 
Who  bends  her  fair  locks  to  the  rushes. 

The  lily-queen  spoke  to  the  maiden  : 

"Choose  thou  among  these  at  thy  pleasure, 

If  thou  wouldst  be  one  of  my  train. 
Thy  spirit  shall  brighten  and  gladden, 
The  sky  shall  grow  softer  in  azure, 

And  mountain,  and  forest  and  plain 
Shall  open  to  thee  their  hid  treasure." 

"  If  thou  the  sweet  promise  fulfillest, 
O  spirit  of  beauty  excelling  !  " 

Cried  Mona,  "  to  thee  I  will  yield. 


THE  LILY  QUEEN.  281 

Give  meflcace — and  the  rest  as  thou  wiliest! 
Choose  ihou  my  new  floreal  dwelling, 
From  plants  of  the  forest  or  field, 
By  stream  or  by  fountain  up-welling. 

"  Forever  to  dwell  in  this  forest, 

This  home  of  sweet  visions  enchanted ! 

I  ask,  I  entreat  but  for   this ! " 
Then  the  queen  :     "If  the  past  thou  abhorrest, 
The  future  gives  all  thou  hast  wanted; 

It  brings  thee  free  gifts — all  the  bliss 
And  affection  for  which  thou  hast  panted." 

"Then  let  it  be  mine  to  resemble," 

Said  Mona,  "the  blossom  so  tender 

She  shrinks  from  the  touch  of  the  wind! 
Mimosa,  whose  feather-leaves  tremble, 
And  quivering  branches  so  slender; 

Like  a  shrinking  and  sensitive  mind, 
She  bows  in  her  timid  surrender." 

The  lily-queen  smiled,  and  the  forest 
Grew  bright  with  a  magic  illuming, 

And  sweet  was  her  breath  on  the  breeze  : 
"  I  will  give  thee  the  gift   thou  implorest, 
And  grant  thee  the  power  of  assuming 

A  form  like  the  sensitive-trees 
Around  thee  so  lavishly  blooming." 


282  TO  ALICE:    A  REVERIE. 

One  touch  from  the  wand  of  the  fairy, 

And  the  maid,  ere  the  eye  could  have  missed  her, 

Was  gone — but  a  delicate  vine 
Was  waving  its  feather-leaves  airy 

With  blooms  of  a  silken-soft  glister, 

The  trailing  mimosa — as  fine 
And  as  fair  as  her  forest-born  sister. 

TO  ALICE:     A  REVERIE. 

(1864.) 

When  the  faint  fire-light  flickers,  red  and  lowly 
And  evening  winds  are  moaning  at  the  pane; 

When  the  dim  hour  of  twilight,  waning  slowly, 
Is  melancholy  with  a  sound  of  rain  — 

Then  Memory  brings  her  jewel-girded  chalice 

Whose  magic  draught  recalls  the  days  of  old, 

When,  gifted  with  a  Midas-touch,  dear  Alice, 

Youth's  glowing  fancy  turned  all  things  to  gold. 

Can  you  forget  how  once  we  sat  together, 

While  the  pale  twilight  deepened  into  gloom, 

And  through  the  casement,  in  May's  mildest  weather, 
The  sweet  spring-breezes  stole  into  the  room  ? 

We  sat  together,  in  the  twilights  olden, 

In  the  sweet  rose  time  of  enchanted  youth ; 


TO  ALICE:    A  REVERIE.  283 

The  blue-eyed  Rosa,  with  her  tresses  golden, 
Nannie  the  wise,  and  laughter-loving  Ruth, 

And  auburn  Alice,  proud,  yet  gentle-hearted ! — 

In  these  dark  days  of  doubt,  and  grief,  and  pain, 

How  oft  I  think  of  these,  the  friends  long  parted  ! 
Youth's  dawning-sun  will  never  rise  again. 

Truly,  I  have  lost  idols,  fondly  cherished — 

Idols  I  could  not  think  were  made  of  clay ; 

But  since  those  days,  far  higher  hopes  have  perished, 
And  dearer  dreams  since  then  have  passed  away. 

I  dream  too  much  :  and  while  thus  idly  musing 

On  childish  joys  I  cannot  quite  forget, 
The  present  glides  away,  and  I  am  losjng 

Youth's  sweeter  roses,  blooming  for  me  yet. 

Beholding  thy  bright  face,  my  sad  heart  rallies : 
Speak  to  me — place  your  hand  upon  my  brow, 

And  exorcise,  with  love's  own  touch,  dear  Alice, 
The  brooding  spirit  that  torments  me  now. 

I  trust  you :  though,  too  often,  friendship  human 

Is  falsehood  in  disguise,  I  trust  it  yet ! 
You  are,  at  least,  true  friend  and  peerless  woman, 

Too  wise  to  change,  too  faithful  to  forget. 


284  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

(May,  1865.) 

"Crowned  and  buried,"  queenly  dead! 

Sacred  be  thy  place  of  rest ; 
Reverent  be  the  silent  tread 

Beside  her  grave  we  love  the  best ; 
And,  if  we  speak,  in  praise  or  prayer, 
Sweet  be  the  tone  that  echoes  there ! 

I  loved  thee  from  my  earliest  youth ; 

I  loved  as  only  youth  can  love ; 
With  all  the  fervor  of  the  South ; 

With  steadfast  faith  that  would  not  move: 
By  thee  my  spirit's  depths  were  stirred, 
As  moonlight  moves  a  mocking-bird. 

A  student  in  a  busy  school, 

I  sat,  with  students  all  around: 

The  aspen-trees  threw  shadows  cool 

Through  the  low  window  till  they  found 

My  seat  beside  the  casement,  where 

My  book-leaves  rustled  to  the  air. 

In  vain  I  read  my  lesson  o'er : 

The  absent  spirit  wandered  free 

With  "Pan"  upon  the  river  shore; 

With  "Margaret,"  and  "Aurora  Leigh;" 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  285 

And  through  the  open  window  played 
The  light  and  flickering  aspen-shade. 

I  drank  with  thee  the  ' '  Cyprus  wine ;  " 
I  saw  "  the  Page"  who  loved  so  well; 

I  bowed  before  fair  "  Geraldine;" 
I  heard  the  mournful  passing-bell 

That  rang  for  "  May  "  a  deep  refrain  : 

I  stood  with  "  Bertha  in  the  Lane  :" 

I  found  the  "  Swan's-Nest  "  in  the  reeds  : 
And  heard  the  Star  send  mourning  song 

To  Lucifer:     "  Onora's  "  beads — 

But  wherefore  count  the  unnumbered  throng, 

The  shining  shapes  that  follow  thee, 

Which  all  the  world  has  loved  with  me  ! 

I  dreamed,  in  that  sweet,  simple  time, 

That  thou  might'st  look  some  future  day, 

Upon  a  humbler  poet's  rhyme, 

And,  smiling,  read  my  rustic  lay, 

An  echo  from  green  solitudes 

In  the  bird-haunted  Southern  woods. 

Thy  loving  Lord  had  need  of  thee  : 

But  from  the  world  where  now  thou  art, 

Perchance  thy  spirit-eyes  may  see 
The  hidden  volume  of  my  heart, 

Reading  its  pages,  one  by  one, 

As  I  thy  printed  verse  have  done  : 


286  THE  SILK-TREE. 

And  thou  those  subtile  chords  canst  see 
Which  so  my  soul  to  thee-did  draw  : 

Thou  knovvest  what  thou  wast  to  me, 
O  friend,  whose  face  I  never  saw  ! 

Thou  knowest  how  my  childish  soul 

Was  softened  by  thy  sweet  control ! 

The  world  has  crowned  thee  with  the  bay, 
But  I  no  classic  wreath  may  twine  ; 

A  lily  of  the  woods  I  lay 

Amid  the  laurels  on  thy  shrine — 

Magnolia,  pure  and  perfect  flower, 

A  type  of  sweetness  blent  with  power. 

THE  SILK-TREE. 
(1866.) 

A  slender  tree,  not  high,  nor  branching  wide ; 

With  supple  boughs,  and  dainty  leaves  light-green 
And  drooping  from  the  boughs  on  every  side, 

Long,  lovely  tassels  wave  their  silken  sheen ; — 

Pale-shining  tassels,  long,  and  soft  and  fair, 

And  bright  as  corn-silk  when  the  corn  is  young; 

With  hints  of  green,  as  on  a  mermaid's  hair 

Faint  shadows  from  her  ocean-caves  are  flung. 

Naiad  of  trees,  the  silk-tree  loves  dark  dells, 
Where  limpid  streams  in  viny  coverts  hide, 


"SJV  DARKNESS  AND  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH."       287 

Wherein  the  wild  swamp-redbird*  safely  dwells, 
And  ferns  and  trailing  ivies  grow  beside. 

The  silk-tree  bends  her  head  above  the  brook, 

Like  a  fair  maiden,  beautiful  and  vain, 
Who  by  some  haunted  streamlet  paused  to  look, 

And  never  from  the  place  might  move  again  : 

Because  a  water-witch,  with  jealous  eyes, 

Changed  the  bright  form  and  fixed  forever  there 

The  maiden's  beauty  in  this  green  disguise — 
But  spared  her  lovely  locks  of  shining  hair. 

''IN  DARKNESS  AND  THE  SHADOW  OF 
DEATH." 

(August,  1868.) 

Reapers,  who  lightly  sowed  the  golden  grain, — 
How  thick  their  harvest-fields  with  goodly  sheaves  ! 

Others,  who  sowed  in  tears,  and  toiled  in  pain, 
For  harvest  have  but  weeds  or  barren  leaves, 
And  all  their  toil  is  vain. 

The  talent  which  Thou  gavest  to  me,  Lord, 

I  buried  not,  nor  hid  away  from  sight, 
Nor  like  a  miser  did  my  treasure  hoard — 

But  sought  to  use  the  costly  gift  aright, 
Obedient  to  thy  word. 

*  "  Swamp-redbird  "  is  the  local  name  for  one  of  the  Tanager  family,  noted  for 
vividly  scarlet  plumage  and  almost  untamable  shyness  and  wildness. 


288       "IN  DARKNESS  AND   THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH: 

Thine  was  the  goodly  seed,  and  thine  the  land, 
And  thine  the  treasure  ;  yet,  I  nothing  earned  ! 

So,  when  thy  gifts  Thou  shalt  again  demand, 
I  yield  them  gladly,  lest  all  should  be  turned 
To  evil,  in  my  hand. 

All  Thou  didst  give  to  me  to  Thee  I  gave : 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  can  do  no  more  ? 

Thy  willing  servant,  not  a  sullen  slave, 
Thine  own  to  Thee  I  gladly  do  restore, 
And  no  reward  would  crave. 

O  righteous  God,  who  holy  art  and  true ! 

O  Christ  the  Lord,  who  lowly  wast  and  meek ! 
Show  me  the  work  that  Thou  wouldst  have  me  do: 

Omnipotence !  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 
And  my  spent  strength  renew. 

O  Thou  the  Strong,  break  not  the  bruised  reed ! 

O  Thou  the  Good,  look  not  upon  my  ill ! 
All-Perfect  Thou  ;  and  I  am  frail,  indeed  ! 

Help  me  thy  gracious  pleasure  to  fulfill ; 
Grant  me  the  help  I  need. 

My  errors  and  my  ignorance,  forgive ; 

• 

Unprofitable,  yet,  Thy  servant  still ! 
Or,  if  Thou  canst  not  pardon,  yet  reprieve ; 
And  if  I  am  too  weak  to  do  Thy  will, 
Unfit  Thy  life  to  live— 


MUSIC  IN  THE  NIGHT.  289 

Unfit  for  earth,  and  more  unfit  for  heaven, — 

In  all  Thy  universe  is  there  no  place 
For  weary  souls,  uncursed  though  unforgiven  ? — 

Foiled  in  the  fight  and  distanced  in  the  race, 
Thou  knowest,  I  have  striven. 

Unfit  for  Thy  pure  Presence,  which  has  blessed 
The  conquering  hosts,  the  sainted  souls  sublime  ; 

Helpless  and  blind,  unknowing  what  is  best, 
A  driven  leaf  upon  the  storm  of  Time, — 
I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  for  rest. 

MUSIC  IN  THE  NIGHT. 
(June,  1875.) 

My  head  was  full  of  pain,  my  heart  of  grief; 

Sultry  the  summer  night,  and  close  the  room : 
I  threw  the  casement  open  for  relief, 

And  stood  there,  gazing  out  on  kindred  gloom. 

Night  caused,  at  least,  the  clamorous  sounds  to  cease 
That  all  day  long  rose  from  the  busy  street : 

I  strove  to  utter  thanks  for  night  and  peace — 
But  night  and  peace  no  more  to  me  were  sweet. 

The  moon  was  up,  and  through  the  trees  she  sped 
A  slender  shaft,  that  touched  my  breast  with  light ; 

And,  suddenly  I  heard,  above  my  head, 
Ethereal  music  flowing  through  the  night. 


290  MUSIC  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Ethereal-fine  as  any  wind-harp's  note  : 
Eolian  music,  but  no  breath  of  wind  ! 

Was  it  a  browny's  bugle  far  remote, 
Or  prairie-spirit,  piping  to  his  kind  ? 

Could  it  be  fairy-flute  or  pixy-shell, 

Or  harp  of  some  sweet  elfin-of-the-light  ? 

An  Ariel's  tabor,  or  the  crystal  bell 

Swung  by  a  sylph  lone-singing  in  the  night  ? 

Who  was  the  sweet  musician,  all  unseen  ? 

Faint  grew  the  sounds,  receding  to  the  skies  : 
Was  it  some  gentle  genie's  tamborine, 

Or  wandering  Peri,  seeking  Paradise  ? 

Far  out  I  leaned,  and  looked  up  in  the  sky, 
Half  fancying  I  might  catch  the  vanishing 

Of  sprite  or  angel ; — but,  the  melody 

Came  from  a  small  bird,  singing  on  the  wing. 

It  was  my  childhood's  joy,  the  mocking-bird, 
Whose  song  I  scarce  had  hoped  to  hear  again ; 

It  was  the  Southern  nightingale  I  heard, 

Singing  to  Western  skies  his  rapturous  strain. 

Upon  the  moonlit  air  he  lightly  hung, 

Waving  his  wings  in  time  to  his  own  tune ; 

Then  floated  up,  and  up,  and  ever  sung, 
As  if  he  rose  to  meet  the  listening  moon. 


MUSIC  IN  THE  NIGHT.  291 

And  while,  entranced  in  silent  joy,  I  drank 
The  melting  sadness  of  the  distant  sound, 

Down  from  the  sky  he  swiftly,  softly  sank, 

In  long, smooth  sweeps, until  he  touched  the  ground, 

Whence,  instant,  up  he  sprang  in  spiral  flight, 
Changing  the  liquid  sweetness  of  his  strain 

To  wild,  exultant  rapture  of  delight ; 

And  stronger,  clearer,  wilder,  the  refrain. 

And  up  he  circled,  upward,  upward,  still ; 

Then,  down,  and  up,  and  round,  and  round  once 
more  ; 

While  clear,  and  sweet,  and  wild,  and  liquid-shrill, 
The  strong,  triumphant  joy  did  he  out-pour. 

At  last,  in  rapid  circles,  he  descends 

Upon  a  cedar's  top ;  his  shrilling  note 
More  softly  cadenced,  till  the  pean  ends 

With  a  low,  liquid  gurgle  in  his  throat : 

Ends  for  a  space,  that  he  may  swing  and  sway — 
Then  comes  a  sudden  burst  of  mimicry  ; 

From  branch  to  branch  he  flits,  from  spray  to  spray 
From  bower  to  chimney,  and  from  roof  to  tree. 

Anon,  the  moon's  exhilarating  light 

Inspires  the  witching  melody  he  sings  : 
If  sounds  had  hues,  the  song  were  pearly  white 

As  the  sweet  moon  that  gilds  his  restless  wings. 


292  ONE  IN  TEN. 

And  so,  through  cadenced  falls,  the  music  glides 
Into  a  silver  sound  of  tenderest  tone, 

Like  the  low  lapsing  of  moon-lighted  tides 
On  some  enchanted  beach  or  islet  lone. 

The  smooth,  sweet  notes  are  full  of  peace  and  rest : 
They  steal  like  drops  of  healing  through  the  ear ; 

They  drop  like  balm  on  tired  brain  and  breast, 
Till  the  rapt  hearer  only  breathes  to  hear. 

Entranced,  I  stood,  when,  rising  like  a  stream, 
The  song,  with  one  high,  thrilling  note  long-drawn, 

Ceased  suddenly  : — I  woke,  as  from  a  dream ; 

And  through  the  window  came  the  golden  dawn. 

OiNE  IN  TEN. 
(Jan.  4,  1876.) 

Why  do  you  weep  and  wail, 

And  talk  of  ingratitude  ? 
Your  tears  will  not  avail 

To  change  the  worldling's  mood, 

Nor  make  the  evil  good, 
Though  you  weep  till  the  stars  grow  pale. 

This  lesson  is  set  for  all : 

They  gave  you  stones  for  bread ; 

For  honey,  they  gave  you  gall ; 
For  wine,  they  poured  instead 


ONE  IN  TEN. 

The  bitter  juices  shed 
From  the  wild  grape's  poisonous  ball. 

Remember — in  days  gone  by 
Ten  lepers  stood  in  the  way, 

Waiting  till  Christ  came  nigh  : 
Ghastly  and  gaunt  were  they; 
The  helpless,  hopeless  prey 

Of  the  hideous  leprosy. 

Far  off  they  stood,  and  cried 
To  the  Lord  of  life  and  death ; 

Nor  was  their  prayer  denied  : 
•'  Depart ! "  the  Saviour  saith, 
"In  my  healing  Word  have  faith, 

And  ye  shall  be  purified." 

The  Master's  grace  restored 
Health  to  those  haggard  men  ; 

Life  and  health,  at  his  word, 
Throbbed  in  their  pulses  again  : 
And,  yet — but  one  of  the  ten 

Came  back  to  thank  the  Lord. 

Only  one  soul  discerned 
The  false  life  from  the  true  ; 

Only  the  stranger  returned 
Of  all  that  thankless  crew  : — 
Will  the  world  keep  faith  with  you, 

When  the  Lord  of  Life  was  spurned  ? 

20 


294  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

INDIAN  SUMMER.* 

(October  22,  1856.) 

'Tis  now  the  Indian  summer,  each  leaf  of  varied  hue 
Is  wearing,  every  changing  hour,  a  color  bright  and  new. 
Tall  maples,  with  their  crimson  leaves ;  the  oak,  of  regal  red  ; 
The  poplar,  with  his  yellow  plume,  waves  loftily  his  head. 

And  pines,  with  dark,  unchanging  green,  their  aid  in  contrast 

lend; 
While  scattered  leaves  from  other  trees  their  mingled  colors 

blend : 

So  thickly  and  so  bright  they  lie,  all  scattered  by  the  way, 
As  if  the  spring  had  come  again,  with  all  her  blossoms  gay. 

Each  oaky  and  sumac-leaf  might  be  a  rose  without  perfume, 
The  painted  sassafras  excels  a  tulip's  varied  bloom  : 
And  others,  deep  in  hollows  dark,  lie  withered,  dry  and  sear, 
Sad  emblems  of  our  fading  lives,  the  warnings  of  the  year. 


••''Preserved  because  it  was  the  first  published  poem  of  the  author,  written  at  a 
very  early  age,  (as  it  shows  in  itself;)  so  early,  indeed,  as  often  to  elicit  doubts  of  so 
young  a  child's  ability  to  think  in  rhyme,  notwithstanding  many  v.ell  known  cases 
of  more  extrerrfe  precocity.  So  much  by  way  of  apology  for  the  author's  eldest 
born  and  (therefore)  favorite  brain-child. 

f"  Oak-leaf"  \.  e  ,  the  Spanish-oak  leaf:  the  poem  was  written  in  a  grove  of 
Spanish  oaks. 


A  COMPARISON.  295 


A  COMPARISON. 

TO    ALICK. 

(July  21,  1876.) 

Your  life  is  like  a  summer  stream 

Embosomed  in  a  flowery  wood ; 
There,  falls  no  scorching  noonday  gleam, 

No  careless  footsteps  there  intrude: 
But  mine — a  mountain-torrent  brave ; 

Swollen  with  floods  of  wild  spring-rain, 
Yet  conscious  of  a  broader  wave, 

And  stronger  when  it  smiles  again. 

Your  heart  is  like  a  sensitive-vine  : 

Torn  from  its  dear  familiar  ties, 
Round  new  supports  it  will  not  twine, 

But  droops  its  beauteous  wreath,  and  dies. 
But  mine — the  trailing-ivy  shoot ; 

Uprooted,  broken,  tossed  aside, 
Trampled  to  earth — it  takes  fresh  root, 

And  spreads  its  leaves  in  greener  pride. 


296  DISCONTENT. 

DISCONTENT. 

(1862.) 

i. 
Into  her  little  room  she  goes, 

And  through  the  open  window  there 
She  breathes  the  fragrance  of  the  rose 

And  feels  the  west-wind  move  her  hair. 

The  day  is  gone,  her  task  is  done ; 

Until  to-morrow's  sun  shall  rise 
The  dews  of  sleep  may  fall  upon 

Her  tired  limbs  and  aching  eyes. 

She  lingers,  ere  she  goes  to  rest, 
Leaning  upon  the  window-sill : 

The  moon  shows  palely  in  the  East, 
The  dew  is  on  the  airy  hill. 

The  sun  is  nearly  out  of  sight, 

But  pours  his  radiance  in  a  flood 

Of  golden  gleams  and  rosy  light, 

Flaming  behind  the  western  wood. 

That  golden-glowing  West  appears 

Like  some  bright  Eden-land  afar ; 

Against  it,  every  tree-trunk  rears 
A  black  line,  like  a  prison-bar. 

"I  know  the  charm  will  fade,"  she  said, 
"  Like  fairy  gold;  the  glamour  goes, 


DISCONTENT.  •  297 

And  from  the  West  the  light  has  fled, 
And  drops  of  twilight  bend  the  rt>se. 

I  know,  beneath  the  Western  sky 

Those  Eden-lands  are  common  grounds ; 

Yet  I  would  go — and  freely  die, 

Once  having  burst  these  prison-bounds  !  " 

2. 
She  walked  across  the  dewy  lawn ; 

The  house  was  wrapped  in  slumber  still : 
She  watched  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

Above  the  green,  dew-shining  hill. 

The  birds  in  liquid  snatches  sung, 

And  whistled  with  a  mellow  sound; 
The  wind  swept  through  her  flowers  and  flung 

The  full-blown  petals  on  the  ground. 

She  murmured:     "Was  the  poet  right, 

Whose  words  so  oft  I  lingered  o'er, 
That  'beauty  is  a  joy,'  a  light 

To  cheer  the  mind  forevermore  ? 

"/  have  no  joy:  the  fields  are  fair, 

The  winds  play  through  the  rustling  trees ; 

Sweet  murmurs  fill  the  fragrant  air — 
And,  yet,  I  have  no  joy  in  these ! 

"  The  sameness  wearies  all  my  soul : 
I  have  so  often  gazed  upon 


298  "FANNIE." 

These  valleys,  where  the  mists  uproll, 
Bright  silver-purple  in  the  sun  : 

' '  And  I  have  walked  among  my  flowers, 
And  wandered  in  the  deep-green  wood, 

Till  I  could  count  the  languid  hours 
By  the  unfolding  of  a  bud. 

"The  prison-shadow  covers  me: 
My  heart  is  sad,  my  life  is  dull : 

I  have  no  joy  in  aught  I  see — 

And  yet  the  world  is  beautiful !  " 


"FANNIE." 

(To  F.  B.,  of  Virginia,  and*?.  E.,  of  Texas.) 

"  What's  in  a  name  ?"     Not  very  much,  in  sooth, 
And  yet,  a  name  can  wake  our  love  or  hate : 
I  like  to  hear  the  cordial  sound  of  K.ATE, 
Of  gentle  ADA,  and  of  simple  RUTH  : 
MARY  flows  liquidly,  and  pure,  and  smooth, 
A  name  at  once  to  love  and  venerate, 
And  well  I  love  the  modest  name  sedate 
Of  ALICE,  charming  synonym  of  truth  : 
But,  FANNIE,  what  to  thee  shall  I  compare? 
The  dew  on  blossoms,  in  the  summer's  heat ! 


FIDELITY.  299 

So  pure,  so  bright,  so  tender,  and  so  fair, 
In  every  maiden  charm  and  grace  complete, 

Are  they  who  this  soft  appellation  wear — 

The  TWO  who  make  the  name  of  FAN x IE  sweet. 

FIDELITY. 

TO    ALICE. 

(Jan.  i,  1877.) 
I  called  thee  "faithful  friend  and  woman  peerless," 

In  our  first  youth :  twelve  changing  years  are  gone, 
But  thou  hast  never  changed ;  fond,  faithful,  fearless ; 

Surely,  of  women  born  the  noblest  one. 

What  words  can  image  thee,  the  true  and  tender, 
Large-brained,  warm-hearted,  proud,  yet  sweet  and 
kind? 

All  meaner  beauty  pales  its  earthly  splendor 
Before  thy  loveliness  of  heart  and  mind. 

Others,  indeed,  have  virtues,  and  have  graces ; 

Each  has  some  separate  gift,  but  thou  hast  all ! 
Virtue  with  virtue,  grace  with  grace  inlaces, 

Weaving  for  thee  a  perfect  coronal. 

Women  there  are  as  loving  and  as  gentle, 
And  women  there  may  be  as  worthy  trust; 

But,  who,  as  thou,  blends  moral  strength  with  mental, 
Loyal  as  loving,  generous  as  just? 


300  MY  BROTHER. 

"Sensitive-vine,"  I  called  thee,  for  thy  sweetness, 

Thy  true  refinement,  fond  fidelity; 
But  no  one  flower  can  image  in  completeness 

That  strong,  bright  soul :  there  is  no  type  of  thee  ! 

I  quarrel  not  with  Fate !  she  sent  pale  malice, 
Envy,  and  hate,  my  shrinking  soul  to  rend, 

But,  to  make  full  amends,  she  gave  me  ALICE — 
Another  name  for  life's  best  gift,  a  friend. 


MY  BROTHER. 

(1876.) 

Alas !  my  brother,  thou,  to  whom  I  sung 

In  dawning  youth, 
Thou,  who  didst  walk  with  me  the  paths  among 

Those  flower-sweet  woodlands  of  our  native  South — 

Little  I  dreamed  that  Death  must  soon  lay  low 

That  bright,  young  head! 
How  bright,  and  how  beloved,  those  only  know 

Whose  star  of  life  went  out  when  thou  wert  dead. 

The  Western  wind  sweeps  freely  o'er  thy  grave, 

But  days  may  come 
When  the  sweet  Southern  fringetree  there  may  wave, 

And  the  wild  iris  cluster  purple  bloom  ; 


"THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS."  301 

And  passion-flowers  shall  cling  about  a  cross 

Above  thee  raised, 
And  virgin  lilies,  set  in  emerald  moss — 

For  thou  didst  love  the  lilies  JESUS  praised. 

••THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS." 

(1879.) 
We  were  three  happy  children  in  one  dwelling ; 

Our  eldest  brother — ah!  so  long  ago! — 
We  two  obeyed,  the  law  of  love  compelling, 

And  followed  in  his  footsteps  to  and  fro. 

And  we  thought  nothing  of  his  patient  kindness, 
No  more  than  of  the  sun,  the  vital  air  : 

His  tender  care  we  took  with  happy  blindness, 

Deeming  that  love  and  trust  were  everywhere. 

The  marsh-magnolia,  queen  of  Piedmont  forests. 

We  stripped  of  long  leaves,  green  as  malachite ; 
And  her  great  lilies,  to  the  little  florists, 

Seemed  perfumed  vases  for  Queen  Mab's  delight. 

We  broke,  for  silvan  parasols  to  shade  us, 

Magnolia-boughs,  around  whose  tips  were  whorled 

Those  long  leaves,  one  of  which,  when  folded,  made  us 
The  sweetest  drinking-cup  in  all  the  world. 

The  mocking-bird  sang  to  the  summer  roses, 

And  then  the  lily-trees  their  blossoms  shed ; 


302  SERENADE. 

But,  later  when  the  passion-flower  uncloses, 
The  marsh-magnolia  pods  are  rosy  red. 

The  Indian-arrow  blazed  in  autumn  splendor 

When  the  new-ripened  nuts  we  gathered  in  : 

We  made  the  wintergreen  its  fruit  surrender, 

And  shook  in  shining  showers  the  chinquapin. 

You  ask — why  things  so  childish  I  remember  ? 

An  empty  shell  keeps  murmuring  of  the  sea ; 
A  thought  of  fire  is  in  the  coldest  ember — 

And  the  lone  spirit  lives  in  memory. 


SERENADE. 

FOR   FANNIE. 

(June,  1874.) 

The  star  of  twilight  glows,  love, 

Lone-shining  in  the  blue; 
The  flowers  of  night  unclose,  love, 

Beneath  the  gathering  dew : 
While  night  is  softly  stealing 

Over  the  liquid  sea, 
Half  veiling,  half  revealing — 

I'll  tune  my  harp  to  thee. 

The  stars  that  fill  the  skies,  love, 
Their  silent  vigils  -keep 


"ROSA  SENZA  SPIN  AS."  303 

Until  the  moon  shall  rise,  love, 

Out  of  the  trembling  deep — 
And  while  the  moon  is  glancing 

Over  the  sparkling  sea, 
Its  glories  all  enhancing — 

My  song  shall  be  of  thee. 


"  ROSA  SENZA  SPIN  AS." 

/;/  memory  of  J.  S.  S.,  of  Danville,   Va. 

O  lovely  and  beloved  !     Whitest  rose, 

Pearl-shining  with  the  sweetest  dews  of  morn ! 

Full-hearted  rose,  that  never  knew  a  thorn ! 
Death  shuts  thy  petals  ere  the  morning  goes. 
And  it  is  better  so :  no  winter  snows 

Can  chill  thee,  in  thy  summer  beauty  borne 

From  earth  to  heaven,  ere  thou  hadst   learned  to 

mourn, 
As  all  earth's  children  must,  denied  repose, 

Which  men  call  death :  sweet  is  the  tender  call 
Of  Death  to  Youth,  and  soonest  heard  by  those 

Nearest  to  heaven,  brightest  and  best  of  all : 
And  where  the  stream  of  life  through  Eden  flows, 
This  folded  flower  shall  all  its  leaves  unclose, 

In  perfect  bloom,  that  shall  not  fade  nor  fall. 


304  THE  FAIR  Y  KING. 

THE  FAIRY  RING. 

(1877-) 
I  walked  the  forest,  in  midsummer  days, 

Indulging  idlest  dreams  and  wildest  fancies, 
Musing  along  the  lovely  woodland  ways, 

With  aimless  steps,  absorbed  in  blissful  trances. 

And  there  I  saw,  within  the  forest  dim, 

A  tiny,  winding  path,  distinctly  threading 

A  maze  of  inter-tangling  vine  and  limb, 

And  eglantine  with  thorny  branches  spreading. 

This  pretty  little  path  was  smooth  and  green 

With  moss,  and  ferny  fringes  marked  the  border, 

While  tall  trees  overhead  had  thrown  a  screen 
As  thick  as  ever  grew  to  nature's  order. 

The  path  emerged  from  tangled  vine  and  fern, 
And  spice,  and  pink  azalea,  thickly  growing 

About  a  marsh,  where  rank,  red  blossoms  burn, 
And  Indian-arrow  drops  its  berries  glowing. 

What  foot  could  penetrate  that  marshy  brake  ? 

What  daring  hand  those  woven  vines  could  sever, 
Nor  fear  to  rouse  the  spotted  water-snake, 

Nor  start  to  feel  the  treacherous  quicksand  quiver  ? 

Stooping,  I  saw  a  narrow  bridge  of  moss 
Away  into  the  marshy  tangle  winding : 


7 'HE  FAIR  Y  RING.  305 

It  seemed  to  bridge  the  sluggish  stream  across, 

But  whither  then  it  went,  was  past  my  finding. 

Turning,  I  followed  it  into  the  gloom 

Of  the  rose-thicket  where  I  first  espied  it ; 

To  walk  that  narrow  path  I  had  small  room, 

So  close  the  tangling  vines  had  grown  beside  it. 

But,  having  passed  the  thicket,  larger  space 

There  was  :  the  mossy  pathlet,  curving,  twisting, 

Through  ranks  of  silver  birches,  reached  a  place 
As  sweet  as  ever  saw  a  fairy's  trysting. 

It  was  a  moss-grown  opening  in  the  wood, 

A  little  dell,  much  like  a  round,  green  dimple 

Of  Mother  Earth  ;  and  in  the  center  stood 

A  small,  round,  placid  spring,  without  a  rimple ; 

As  if  a  silver  basin  had  been  placed 

For  some  fair  dryad's  bath  of  fragrant  waters, 
Or  like  some  fallen  mirror,  which  had  graced 

The  airy  tiring-room  of  cloudland's  daughters. 

There  was  no  outlet  to  this  placid  well, 

At  least  none  visible  :  it  lay  as  quiet 
As  a  great  gleaming  dewdrop  in  the  dell, 

Reflecting  ferns  and  blossoms  that  grew  by  it. 

Around  were  groups  of  water-loving  trees, 

The  fringe-tree,  and  the  beautiful  cucumber, 


306  THE  FAIR  Y  KING. 

The  glistening  laurel,  and,  more  frail  than  these, 
Fairy  mimosas,  drooping  as  in  slumber. 

O'er  all  the  dell  there  shone  the  tender  light 
Of  dying  day  :  the  moon  had  risen  early, 

And  through  the  forest-trees  upon  the  right, 

Shot  long,  straight  lines  of  light,  like  lances  p  ear  ly 

Touching  the  soft  green  mosses  of  the  dell. 

And  the  fair  trees  that  grew  as  in  a  garden  ; — 
Surprise  and  pleasure  bound  me  like  a  spell ! 

So  small  a  park  should  have  a  fairy  warden. 

I  still  stood  in  that  small,  green  path  that  led 

To  this  sweet  pleasure-plot ;  and  there  it  ended : 

The  forest-trees  met  dark  above  my  head, 

Great  oaks,  with  mistletoe  in  wreaths  suspended. 

And  looking  down  before  me,  I  could  see 
A  fairy  ring,  my  onward  steps  opposing  ; 

A  fringe  of  grass,  that  circled  all  the  lea, 

The  little  dell  in  magic  bounds  inclosing. 

Aloud  I  spoke,  half  earnest,  half  in  sport : 

"Oh,  would  I  had  the  fated  four-leaf  clover, 

So  I  might  look  upon  the  fairy  court, 

And  step,  unharmed,  the  magic  circle  over." 

And,  speaking  thus,  I  looked  upon  the  ring, 

Whose  tall,  rank  grasses  seemed  to  part  and  waver : 


THE  FAIR  Y  RING.  307 

I  saw  a  four-leaf  clover  forward  swing — 

I  saw,  and  stooped,  and  plucked  the  fairy  favor; 

And  then,  the  fairy  ring  I  stepped  within  : — 
There  came  a  silver  sound  of  fairy  laughter, 

And  small,  sweet  voices  made  a  merry  din, 

And  tripping  feet  and  whirring  wings  came  after. 

They  hung  like  flights  of  butterflies  in  air, 

They  sprang  like  fire-flies  from  the  dewy  grasses ; 

They  rode  by  troops  on  elfin  coursers  fair ; 

They  flashed  like  wild-fire  from  the  dark  morasses. 

With  clasping  hands,  the  fairy  boys  and  girls 

Kept  time  in  airy  dances,  circling,  swinging, 

Brighter  than  roses  wreathed,  or  springs  of  pearls ; 
And  all  the  wood  re-echoed  to  their  singing, 

To  sound  of  pipe  and  tabor,  lute  and  shell, 

And  golden  harp,  and  silver  flute  entrancing : 

And  as  the  waves  of  music  rose  and  fell, 

So  rose  and  fell  the  airy  circles  dancing. 

Then  did  the  fountain,  swelling  high  and  higher, 
While  all  its  troubled  water  whirls  and  darkles, 

Shoot  upward  in  a  jet  of  silver  fire, 

Descending  in  a  rain  of  starry  sparkles. 

And  laughing  water-fairies,  small  and  bright, 
Rode  on  the  tossing  jets  of  silver-burning; 


308  THE  FAIR  V  RING. 

Now  flashing  skyward  in  a  stream  of  light, 

And  now  in  rainbow  tinted  spray  returning. 

But,  oh  !  the  queen — the  fairest  of  the  fair  ! 

Robe,  silver  gauze,  with  diamonds  all  a  twinkle ; 
A  starry  crown  upon  her  floating  hair, 

That  caught  the  light  on  every  golden  crinkle. 

A  waxen  calla-lily,  pure  as  snow, 

Formed  the  queen's  car:  six  humming-birds  before  her 
Drew  on  the  chariot,  and,  in  regal  show, 

A  purple  passion-flower  was  carried  o'er  her, 

Borne  by  a  winged  sprite  for  a  canopy 

To  shade  Titania's  eyes  of  starry  azure; 

And,  on  each  side,  a  brilliant  butterfly 

Fanned   her  with  wings   that   waved   in   rhythmic 
measure  : 

Those  gorgeous  bird-flies,*  bearing  colors  bright 
As  humming-birds  upon  their  jeweled  winglets  ; 

And  fire-flies  round  her  wove  a  web  of  light, 

Bright-sparkling  as  the  diamonds  in  her  ringlets. 

A  ring  of  fairies  flew  on  every  side 

Around  their  lovely  mistress,  to  attend  her, 

And  warbling  orioles,  redbirds,  bluebirds,  vied 
With  many  more,  in  pride  of  plumy  splendor. 

*  "  Bird-flies  ;"  that  is,  those  beautiful  butterflies  that,  in  their  shape  and 
brilliant  coloring  strongly  resemble  humming-birds.  Science  knows  them  by  anoth 
er  name  than  that  of  bird-fly,  or  tobacco-fly,  the  beautiful  pest  of  Virginia  planters. 


THE  JE  WEL-SEE  KER.  309 

The  mockbird  sang  incessant,  and  in  showers 
Came  down  the  summer-dew  invigorating, 

Till,  at  their  queen's  approach,  the  laughing  flowers 
Gave  out  a  fragrance  half  intoxicating. 

Wild  with  delight,  I  quite  forgot  myself: 

I   clapped  my  hands  —  and  dropped   the  four-leaf 

clover! 
Instant,  the  lights  were  out,  and  every  elf 

Melted  like  mist :  the  fairy  dream  was  over ! 

THE  JEWEL-SEEKER. 

Addressed  to  Mrs.  L.  R.  M. ,  of  Kansas  City,  Mo. 

A  child  once  dreamed  he  saw  an  angel  fair, 

Holding  a  gem,  whence  light  like  star-beams  spread, 

Soft-luminous.      "Seek  thou  this  jewel  rare; 

Seek  it  through  all  the  world !  "  the  angel  said. 

Next  day,  the  child  saw  dew-drops  in  the  sun, 

And  thought  the  jewel  shone  in  one  of  them  ; 

But,  when  he  plucked  the  grasses,  one  by  one 

Dropped  down  and  vanished  every  liquid  gem. 

Yet,  still  he  sought  the  jewel,  year  by  year, 

Through  happy  childhood  and  a  youth  of  dreams  : 

He  searched  deep  mines,  and  mountain-caverns  drear, 
And  ocean-depths,  and  beds  of  limpid  streams. 


3 1  o  THE  JR  W EL- SEE  KER. 

So  earnestly  the  seeker  longed  to  find 

This  charmed  jewel  of  supernal  light, 
That  sweet  delusion  fell  upon  his  mind, 

And^common  things  grew  precious  in  his  sight. 

Oft-times,  he  treasured  bits  of  colored  glass, 

Pebbles,  and  painted  shells,  for  jewels  rare  : 

But,  when  he  put  them  to  the  proof,  alas ! 

He  found  the  wondrous  jewel  was  not  there. 

And  men  said,  mournfully,  the  gem  he  sought 
Illumined  earth  no  longer  with  its  beam  : 

But  others  mocked ;  and  said  the  gem  was  naught 
But  the  bright  fancy  of  a  poet's  dream. 

The  jewel  seeker  could  not  think  it  so, 

Yet,  hoped  no  more  to  find  this  rarest  stone  : 

But  he  had  found,  in  seeking  to  and  fro, 

Strange  things  and  fair,  which  else  he  had  not  known. 

Then  came  the  angel  of  his  dream  once  more  : 

"Thou  hast  been  faithful  to  thy  task,  and  learned 

The  lesson  well !     Look  now  upon  thy  store 

Of  common  things,  and  see  what  thou  hast  earned." 

Behold,  among  the  pebbles  in  his  hand 

One  flashed  in  rainbow  tint  and  starry  ray ! 

The  jewel  he  had  sought  through  sea  and  land 
Had  come  to  him  disguised  as  common  clay. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD.  311 

"  One  priceless  gem,"  the  angel  said,  "  is  thine, 
Won  by  thy  faith — but  this  I  bring  thee,  see ! 

Is  a  free  gift  of  the  great  Power  Divfne, 

Who  sends  this  second  jewel  unto  thee!" 


O  friend  beloved,  thou  joy  of  Heaven's  bestowing! 

I  thought  myself  most  rich  in  one  such  gem  : 
But  Friendship  fills  my  cup  to  overflowing, 

And  crowns  me  with  her  brightest  diadem. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

(June,  1875.) 

Leaning  upon  my  balcony,  I  feel 
The  subtile  breath  of  twilight  round  me  steal, 
And  from  the  garden  that  beneath  me  lies 
O'errun  with  bloom,  the  mingling  odors  rise. 
Smooth-rolling  from  the  distant  garden-beds 
In  grassy  verdure  sweep  the  level  meads ; 
Beyond,  the  woody  hill-tops  meet  the  sky, 
And,  at  their  foot,  a  river  flowing  by. 
Forever  wails,  upon  the  distant  hill, 
The  twilight  bird,  the  boding  whippowil ; 
Forever  from  the  garden-bower  is  heard 
The  throbbing  cadence  of  the  mocking-bird. 

"  Whip-po-wil!" 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

"Light  lingers,  still! 
Beauty  is  on  the  green  hill-side, 

And  coolness  in  the  shade  ! 
Up  from  the  river  clear  and  wide 
The  full  tones  of  the  rippling  tide 

Roll  musical  and  glad  : 
Where,  gliding  soft  with  murmuring  roll 

The  river  ripples  by, 
Upon  each  greenly-rising  knoll, 
Like  memories  on  a  weary  soul, 

The  gathered  shadows  lie. " 

"  Whip-po-wil!  '' 

The  garden  is  a  tangled  waste  of  flowers, 
Intricate  walks,  and  thickly-shaded  bowers  : 
Tuberose  and  jasmine  blend  their  odors  there, 
And  the  rich  roses  blossom  everywhere ; 
The  winding  walks  are  strewed  with  silver  sand, 
And  fringed  with  flowering  plants  on  either  hand ; 
Sweet  heliotropes,  and  starry  asphodels; 
Myrtles ;  and  fuchsias,  trailing  crimson  bells  : 
Lilies  of  many  colors,  golds,  and  blues, 
And  orange  shades,  and  rich  vermilion  hues  : 
But  sweetest  are  the  lilies  virgin-white, 
Set  in  broad  leaves  as  green  as  malachite. 
Trailing-mimosa  clasps  the  garden  bower, 
With  yellow-jasmine  twined,  and  passion-flower. 
Whatever  tree,  or  shrub,  or  flower  is  fair. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

What  vine  is  graceful,  grows  and  blossoms  there: 
The  whole  bright  landscape  in  the  moonlight  lies, 
Fair  as  a  lingering  dream  of  Paradise. 
"  Whip-po-wil'." 

"The  world  is  still! 

Sleep,  weary  world ;  forget  thy  weariness ! 
Sleep,  cruelty,  forgetting  to  oppress ! 
O  eyes  that  ache,  that  only  wake  to  weep  ! 

0  hearts  that  break,  forget — forget  in  sleep  !  " 
"  Whip-po-wil'." 

Ah,  boding  bird,  be  still ! 

1  would  not  hear  thy  mournful  monotone, 
But  listen  to  the  mocking-bird  alone. 

Sweet  mocking-bird,  winged  music  of  the  woods, 
Interpreter  of  varying  Nature's  moods, 
Thou,  who  hast  learned  in  moonlight  solitudes 
To  blend  in  one  full  song  all  sounds  of  bliss, — 
The  whippowil  hath  made  thee  sing  amiss, 
And  all  thy  music  deepens  into  pain  : 
But,  sing,  sweet  mocking-bird  !  sing  now  again, 
And  from  thy  mellow  throat  the  music  pour 
Of  hope,  and  joy,  and  beauty  evermore. 

"I  sing  to  the  bride  of  the  night, 
To  the  tuberose,  loved  of  the  night, 
Who  holds  her  fragrant  breath  the  long  day  through ; 
The  flower  most  exquisite. 


3H  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

The  flower  of  all  delight, 
Who  opens  her  heart  to  the  night, 
To  the  night,  and  the  silence,  and  dew. 
O  type  of  the  faithful  few ! 

0  type  -of  the  fond  and  the  true, 
Who  can  love  when  the  light  of  joy  is  gone. 
When  the  day  of  happiness  is  done — 

As  the  tuberose  breathes  her  heart  alone 
To  the  night,  and  silence,  and  dew." 
"Whip-po-ivil!" 

The  bird   of  twilight  still 
Calls  from  his  covert  on  the  crested  hill, 
But  the  sweet  mocking-bird  has  drawn  more  near, 
And  from  the  orange-tree  arises  clear 
His  liquid  note,  that  flows  like  molten  gold : 
A  song  of  youth,  and  pleasures  manifold. 

"I  sing  from  the  scented  orange-tree; 

1  sing  a  song  of  memory  ; 

And  by  the  deep-green  orange-tree 

The  rich  pomegranate  grows, 
And  near  them  both,  abundantly 

Blossoms  the  royal  rose. 

I  sing  of  the  days  gone  by, 

The  dream-led  days  of  youth ! 
I  sing  of  enchanted  lands  that  lie 
In  light  beneath  life's  morning-sky, 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD.  315 

All  bright  with  the  rose-empurpled  dye 

Of  the  beautiful  dawn  of  youth! 

And  the  visions  of  youth  again 

Awake  to  my  wild,  sweet  strain; 

They  come  in  a  shining  train 

From  the  bloom-laden  land  of  the  South; 
They  bring  thee  a  draught  divine, 
Sweeter  and  stronger  than  wine, — 
A  draught  from  the  fountains  of  Youth,  that  shine 

Afar  in  the  radiant  South!" 

The  dark-blue  sky  has  changed  to  amethyst ; 
The  tender  clouds  are  fine  as  melting  mist ; 
And  in  the  morn's  full  glory,  plain  are  seen 
The  garden's  varied  hues,  the  meadow's  green. 
Sing,  mocking-bird,  interpret  Nature's  bliss! 
That  silver  song  becomes  a  night  like  this. 
"  Whip-po-wil!" 

"The  night  is  still ! 

The  risen  moon  is  high  above  the  hill; 
The  meads  are  bright  with  lavish  light, 
The  melting  mist  is  pearly  white, 
And  heaven  smiles  on  earth  to-night, 

Tranced  in  the  silence  of  light! 

Trembling  to  the  beams, 
Glancing,  glittering,  go  the  starry  streams ; 
The  river  like  a  jeweled  girdle  gleams, 
And  like  a  thread  of  twisted  silver  seems 

The  little  meadow-rill ; — 


316  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

The  curving,  crinkling,  silver-twinkling,  faintly- 
tinkling  meadow-rill!" 
"  Whip-po-wil !  " 

Heavy  with  perfume  droops  the  languid  breeze, 

Yet  moves,  as  if  to  subtle  harmonies  : 

Beauty  and  melody  and  fragrance  make 

The  swooning  sense  with  over-sweetness  ache; 

The  roses  quiver,  and  the  lilies  shake, 

And  the  whole  garden  moves,  as  if  it  stirred 

To  the  wild  music  of  the  mocking-bird. 

"  The  dews  of  night  are  shed 

On  the  regal  roses  red, 
On  the  silver  lilies,,  gleaming  through  the  dark ; 

And  the  moon's  white  splendor  shines 

On  the  clustering  passion-vines, 
Till  every  clinging  drop  of  dew  becomes  a  diamond  spark. 

The  fringed  blossoms  sway 

As  the  winds  about  them  play, 
And  the  trembling  dew-drops  fall,  a  fairy  shower; 

The  diamond  droplets  fall 

From  her  purple  coronal, 
From  the  fairest  flower  of  all,  the  peerless  passion-flower! 

O  flower  of  night  and  morn  ! 

O  crown  beset  with  thorn  ! 
A  type  of  helpless  pain,  a  type  of  kingly  power ! 

Of  all  the  blossoms  born 

Earth's  bosom  to  adorn, 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD.  317 

Most  beautiful,    most  dear  art  thou,  imperial    passion 
flower  !  " 

r 

The  dewy  blossoms  glisten  as  they  bend,  and  sway  and 
listen ! 

"  O  soul  of  the  poet,  be  strong! 

I  will  sing  thee  a  sweeter  song 

Than  all  I  have  sung  thee  before, 

Than  the  songs  that  I  sung  thee  of  yore : 

' '  When  earth  is  past 

With  its  bale  and  its  bliss, 
Forgotten,  at  last, 

Like  the  nothing  it  is, — 
When  the  pain  that  is  o'er 

Has  taught  thee,  at  length, 
That  meekness  is  power, 

And  weakness  is  strength — 

"The  Giver  of  all  thy  loved  will  recall, 

And  all  thy  lost  treasures  restore  : 

And  the  wine  of  life  will  pour, 

Till  thy  shallow  cup  run  o'er, 

And  the  red  wine  fall  to  the  floor. 
Listen — listen — listen  to  my  golden  song  once  more  ! 

"  There  is  meaning  full  and  clear 
For  a  poet's  dreaming  ear, 


3,8  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

In  my  song  without  a  word ; 

A  song  of  a  hope  deferred  : 
A  song  of  a  race  that  is  run  ; 
A  song  of  a  new  day  begun  ; 
A  song  of  the  South  and  the  sun — 

A  song  of  the  mocking-bird  !  " 


X 


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